


Thy Friends do Stand by Thee

by SanBaerli



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanBaerli/pseuds/SanBaerli
Summary: When Aramis and Treville set out to investigate a threat against the crown, the mission turns into a battle for survival. A daring rescue is mounted in the hopes to defy the devil and his schemes. Brotherhood and H/C.





	1. Chapter 1

Hello all. Remember me? :) I finally finished my next multi-chapter fic and I’m very excited to share it with you. Chapters will be posted as they complete the editing process. Probably once or twice a week.

This story is set a couple of weeks after the end of season one and tells the tale of an epic adventure as two of our heroes find themselves in mortal peril, skill and endurance are stretched to the limit and emotions run high in the race to find them alive.

Hurt, Comfort, Friendship and Action are the foundations of this little tale and the focus centers around Aramis, though every one of our guys has a big part to play.

If you decide to read, I hope you enjoy and would love to hear your thoughts!

A huge thank you to DeadshotMusketeer for her wonderful support and additions to this piece. All remaining mistakes are mine. 

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything you recognize. 

Without further ado...

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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee

Wednesday morning

As Aramis sat in front of the campfire with his eyes closed to the world and fresh air expanding his lungs, the orange glow of the flames flickered on the inside of his eyelids, creating a play of movement and color meant solely for him.

Sleep had been an elusive creature as of late, chased into submission by thoughts of Queen Anne and his unborn child; a child he knew he would never be able to hold or comfort, his affections doomed to remain hidden and his innermost desires forever out of reach.

Aware of the danger his constant distraction might summon for everyone around him, he had been trying to quiet his errand thoughts ever since the Queen’s pregnancy had been announced two weeks prior.

While he would never attempt to banish his son and the woman he loved from their rightful place in his heart, he knew he needed to find a way to extract them from his mind if he was to continue to serve his King as a Musketeer and uphold the Brotherhood that meant so much to him. 

Sitting in the Forest of Fontainebleau hours outside Paris, and surrounded by nothing but trees and brush, Aramis’ efforts to calm his racing thoughts proved successful at last. 

With eyes still closed, he enjoyed the peace that had eluded him for weeks, silently mapping his surroundings by the sounds he had grown accustomed to since he had volunteered to take watch.

The wind rustled a tune in the crowns of the trees and he felt its cool touch on his face as it blew through his curls. Enveloped by the heat of the fire in front of him, the generous flames warmed his very core while the crackling sounds issued from glowing embers proved almost sufficient to cover the soft snores emanating from his left, where his captain slept soundly. 

Above him, he registered the intermittent hoot of an owl while the rustle disturbing the underbrush to his right was likely caused by a rodent scurrying about the forest floor. A soft snicker and the muffled scrape of hooves against fallen leaves reminded him where their horses stood, tied to a tree, just beyond the fire. 

Even without glancing at the night sky and the constellations above, Aramis felt dawn approaching as the crisp air and his inner clock heralded the new day and the continuance of their mission.

Hushed voices in the distance shattered his serenity. Nothing more than cryptic whispers that a less battle-honed soul might mistake for the breath of the wind.

Aramis’ eyes snapped open and his body stiffened as all of his senses adjusted to a state of alert. 

A rustle of branches joined the crushing of dead leaves. Aramis whirled his head to the right, sensing an impending ambush.

Reaching out, he grasped his companion’s shoulder in an urgent effort to rouse the sleeping man. 

Treville opened his eyes, wide and honed for action. “What is it?” he asked in a hushed voice as he pushed off the ground, absently running a hand down his face to rid himself of the remnants of sleep.

“We’re not alone. Someone is closing in,” Aramis whispered, focusing on the darkness beyond the flames. “Over there.” 

Tilting his head, he also indicated the brush to his right, where the glow of the fire danced against dark shadows. “And there.” He locked eyes with his captain. “Whatever we decide to do, we must be swift. They are not yet upon us but they will be shortly.”

“Given the option, I’d prefer to go out and meet our fate rather than sit here and wait for it,” decided Treville as he grasped the weapons belt sitting next to his bedroll and hurriedly rose to his feet to fasten it around his waist. “The fire will draw them to the campsite. I say we split up and head into the forest.” Wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his rapier, Treville freed the blade from its sheath. “You move straight ahead. I’ll go right. We circle whoever approaches and attack from behind.”

“Simple enough,” Aramis remarked, unable to hide a smirk as he gained his footing. Catching Treville’s eye, his gaze was met with a raised brow reminiscent of Athos. 

“I appreciate your determination, is all,” Aramis’ said, shrugging in the face of his captain’s criticism. 

Reaching for the hilt of his sword, he mirrored Treville’s earlier movement and freed his rapier from its sheath. The sliding sound of steel, combined with the familiar weight in his hand, never failed to put him at ease, no matter the odds he faced. 

When he turned to enter the shadows of the trees in search of the unknown foe, Aramis’ blood pumped harder in anticipation of the challenge. But with weeks of contemplating an impossible situation with no hope of a satisfying outcome, he downright welcomed the prospect of venting his frustrations. 

His quiet steps were halted by the rushed whisper of his name. 

“Aramis.”

Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Aramis met Treville’s gaze, the orange glow of the fire accentuating the other man’s hard and stern features, proclaiming his readiness for battle. 

“Be careful in your approach,” the captain cautioned. “We know neither their purpose nor their numbers.”

“Understood.” Aramis nodded his agreement and watched Treville disappear behind the enormous trunk of an oak tree, the black mouth of the forest swallowing his form completely.

As Aramis turned and stepped beyond the ring of light cast by the reaching arms of orange flames, his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness stretching between pines and oaks. The moon spared no effort in its attempt to penetrate the canopy of leaves above, creating scattered rays of pale light that battled the ghostly shadows of his surroundings.

Mindful that he would soon lose the cover of darkness to the rising sun, he strode forward with purpose, hoping to find a way to conceal himself long enough for the advancing party to pass him by and enabling him to covertly approach from behind, aided by the element of surprise.

Keeping his steps light to avoid detection, Aramis carefully navigated moss-covered tree trunks and knotted roots entwined with each other like a gathering of snakes.

After he circled the sweeping branches of a pine tree, he recognized the outline of a large boulder. The gray bodied rock formation stood several yards ahead and represented one of the many this forest was famous for. 

The rocks’ most striking aspect was its resemblance to the domed shell of a giant tortoise; the horny shields of a life turtle perfectly imitated by large scales carved into sandstone. Drawing closer, Aramis realized this oddly shaped rock would serve his purpose perfectly. 

Tall enough to conceal a grown man to anyone passing on the other side, Aramis pressed his back against the boulder, attempting to melt into the shadows cast by the stony creature.

Roughly a minute had passed since he left the campsite and his enemies wouldn’t be far. 

Grasping the butt of his loaded pistol with his free hand, Aramis pulled the weapon from his belt to aid his rapier in the upcoming fight. The comforting weight of a familiar weapon in each hand provided all the confidence necessary to put his mind at ease.

Allowing his head to fall back and connect with the jagged surface behind him, he exhaled slowly, savoring the calm before the storm.

While the cold of the rock at his back penetrated his leathers and slowly seeped into his bones, he closed his eyes, listening for any sign of his attackers. The image of three familiar faces suddenly flitted through his mind’s eye and he found a moment to regret the fact that his brothers were not with him. 

He and Treville formed a formidable team, though Aramis felt certain that he would sorely miss Porthos’ strength, Athos’ foresight and d’Artagnan’s determination in the coming hours. 

His eyes snapped open with the crunch of pine needles, pulling his spine taut like a bowstring.

Tightening his grip on his rapier, Aramis stepped sideways toward the end of the shell, his back sliding along the rock, careful not to make a sound.

As the footfalls of his adversaries slowly moved past his hiding place, Aramis rounded the tail end of the giant turtle and chanced his first glance at the enemy.

Staring at the backs of two men clad in black leather and visible only because the faint light of the moon bore witness, Aramis watched them carefully creep through the underbrush in direction of the campsite. 

Exhaling slowly, he mentally prepared himself for combat, drawing a plan of attack in his mind.

Without further delay, he flipped his pistol to grasp the barrel in a secure hold and broke cover. Before either of the unwelcomed aggressors had the chance to turn at the sound of his hurried steps, Aramis swung his pistol like a club and smashed it into the skull of the man to his left. 

As the sickening crack of bone reached Aramis’ ears and his victim’s body slumped to the ground like a puppet with severed strings, Aramis rounded on the other man still standing; his rapier an extension of his arm, the point sharp and deadly thrust against the hollow of his opponent’s throat. 

“Drop your weapon,” Aramis hissed. “Do it now.” 

When his adversary raised his chin in defiance and cold eyes stared at him from beneath the brim of a hat, Aramis drove his sword point forward a fraction to force the man’s compliance. “I will not ask again.” 

His opponent accepted defeat with a slump of his shoulders, dropping his pistol onto a bed of pine needles.

“Now,” Aramis demanded. “State your purpose.”

“Our purpose?” the man repeated, an air of amusement in his voice. His demeanor changed a heartbeat later when his weathered face turned into a snarl and his eyes glinted dangerously in the faint light of approaching dawn. “We came to hunt Musketeers.”

Aramis tilted his head and adjusted the grip on his sword to emphasize his words. “You would have done well to remember that Musketeers are not easy prey.”

“So it would seem,” his adversary teased. “Or would it?”

The smug response triggered a sense of urgency in Aramis and instinct guided his movements as he spun around before the snap of a twig behind him registered in his mind.

Aramis’ sword mirrored his roundabout motion, hissing a violent tune as it split the air and caught the rapier meant for his back in a clash of steel. Struggling to regain the upper hand as he faced a third opponent, Aramis pushed against his enemy’s blade, desperate to drive his attacker back and give himself room to maneuver. 

After two quick steps, Aramis broke the connection between steel with a downward thrust of his rapier creating a screech of grating metal. Driving his sword point forward with precision, Aramis’ opponent was forced to parry quickly in the face of superior skill.

With a second well-aimed strike, Aramis forced the man to perform a desperate dance for balance when his blade bit into the flesh just below the right shoulder joint. An agonized scream chilled the air as the pain of the inflicted injury forced its victim to relinquish the grip on his sword. 

Before Aramis had the chance to properly subdue his opponent, he was forced to shift focus yet again when the shuffle of pine needles alerted him to the danger still present behind him.

Chancing a glance over his shoulder he found the other man on his knees, arms out front and scrambling to retrieve his discarded pistol. 

When his opponent closed his hand around the butt of his weapon, Aramis rushed to aim his own pistol and fired the shot without delay. As the violent discharge shattered all pretense of a peaceful morning, his enemy’s head snapped back forcefully with the impact of a lead ball between his eyes.

Still, there was no time for Aramis to gather his thoughts as a glint of metal swept into his peripheral vision. The flash of steel heralded a dagger on its downward path toward the base of his neck as the only remaining foe took advantage of Aramis’ momentary distraction to strike. 

Throwing his sword arm up in defense, Aramis’ heart thumped a violent beat. He realized he would fail to catch the descending blade with his own when the close vicinity of his opponent left him unable to adequately block the blow.

When the opposing main gauche pierced his arm from above, pain crashed into him; a thundering wave overtaking his senses and threatening to drown him as spent air remained trapped inside his lungs. 

A violent tremor seized Aramis’ injured limb as the blade missed the bone and tunneled its way through muscle and flesh to emerge on the other side, slick with blood. 

The shock to Aramis’ system threatened to drop him to his knees as his rapier slid from lax fingers and the grotesque image of his skewered arm forced him to swallow convulsively. 

Aramis’ attacker released the hilt of his dagger, leaving the weapon lodged in Aramis’ limb before moving to pull his pistol. 

Mindful not to jostle the protruding blade, Aramis curled his mangled arm to his body, forcing his knees to remain locked while fighting to focus past the sensation of burning embers feeding on his flesh. 

Simultaneously, Aramis released the spent pistol he held in his left hand and hastily wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his main gauche, feeling his remaining seconds tick by as his opponent’s weapon settled on his chest.

Refusing to resign himself to this fate, Aramis thrust his dagger forward, moving faster than his current condition should allow, and sunk the blade deep into the other man’s stomach. 

Eyes wide with horror, a sharp intake of breath signaled his adversary’s surrender as blood spilled over his bottom lip to run down his chin in a stream of viscous red. Legs folding beneath him, the man slumped to the ground, a bed of pine needles serving as his final resting place.

Failing to draw comfort from the sudden silence, Aramis staggered backward, his balance impaired by the debilitating ache caused by the foreign object lodged in his arm.

Closing his eyes, Aramis worked to calm his thundering heart, feeding his starving lungs with slow and measured breaths until his equilibrium restored itself.

Painfully aware of his next move and loath to delay any further, he cursed his less than favorable situation as he opened his eyes and lowered himself to the ground until his knees touched the soft earth beneath him. 

Resting his blood-coated dagger on the ground next to him, his left hand moved to hover over the hilt protruding from his forearm, the twisted brass-wire-grip reflecting the first rays of light that cleared a golden path through the swaying branches above. 

An angry growl emerged from deep within his chest, baring his frustrations to the world as he folded his fingers around the offending object.

Inhaling sharply through his nose, he gritted his teeth and yanked the enemy’s blade from his arm. “Guh. Bloody hell,” he exclaimed when his parted flesh released the weapon from its confinement with a sickening sucking sound. 

The dagger slipped from Aramis’ grasp when he failed to control the tremor that held his body hostage. The fire inside him greedily licked at his wound, causing him to curl in on himself while the crisp morning air stung his nostrils with every rapid breath.

A heightened sense of urgency pushed passed the ache spreading through his system, clawing itself to the forefront of his mind and alerting him to the fact that danger still loomed beyond the cover of the trees. 

In addition, the uncertainty of his captain’s fate spiked Aramis’ concern for the man and doubled his efforts to regain his composure. 

Porthos’ voice suddenly echoed throughout his mind, demanding him to move, now. Aramis straightened, the familiar tenor of his friend lending him the strength to push on.

With his injured arm resting securely in his lap, Aramis fixed his eyes to the leather sleeve, torn in two places and rapidly changing color as his blood escaped in a river of crimson, alerting him to his first order of business.

Grasping the end of his blue sash with his left hand, he placed the material between his teeth and leaned back to pull it taut. Next, he wound his fingers around the hilt of his dagger, placing the sharp edge close to the knot that secured the piece of cloth to his waist. 

With an upward flick of his wrist, he cut the sash, the long piece of fabric falling into his lap when he released his bite on the other end.

After returning his main gauche to its rightful place behind his back, Aramis pushed up his sleeve to survey the damage beneath. Having expected the steady flow of blood that greeted him, Aramis hurried to use the bandage he had created and started to wrap his arm, the necessary pressure causing him to grunt in pain as fiery daggers pierced his skin.

Although the bandage would slow the bleeding, he was painfully aware this solution would only provide a temporary fix as both the entry and exit wounds expelled a worrying amount of red. Blood loss and the risk of infection would be his enemy until such time he could treat the wound properly. 

When he looped the sash around his limb one final time, his breath fired in short bursts while his arm throbbed a merciless beat. Once again using his teeth to aid the completion of his task, Aramis pulled the fabric tight and knotted both ends together.

Satisfied with the result of his patchwork, he lowered his sleeve to cover the bandage and hoped that concealing the wound would help him focus past the gnawing pain.

Loath to grant his body any outward sign of weakness, Aramis used a shaking hand to wipe the sweat beading on his brow as he worked to regulate his breathing. 

Narrowing his focus, he shuffled forward on his knees, retrieving his pistol from the ground with one hand while reaching for the powder at his waist with the other, intent on reloading his weapon. 

Aramis’ efforts stalled when a scream echoed within the forest, heralding the next storm on his horizon. It wasn’t the volume of the sound, however, but the unmistakable tenor of the voice that shredded his armor and pierced his heart.

Treville.

TBC  
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And so it begins... :)


	2. Chapter 2

A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favorited this story so far! You guys are awesome! I hope you enjoy the next part.

Many thanks also to my wonderful beta SpaceCowboy whose input is invaluable.

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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 2

Tuesday morning

"Treville," greeted Cardinal Richelieu as the Musketeer Captain crossed the threshold of the heavy double doors leading into the ornate library of the Louvre Palace. "How nice of you to join us."

Treville chose to ignore the familiar hint of unveiled sarcasm coloring the Cardinal's voice. "How may I be of service?" he asked as he advanced further into the room, alarmed when he noticed the King pacing the tiled floor like a caged tiger.

"A messenger brought word from one of our informants at the LaRochelle seaport," Richelieu began. "According to his message, a large shipment of gunpowder and firearms was delivered to a Huguenot stronghold within the city of LaRochelle."

Treville's eyebrows knitted together. "By the treaty terms of the Peace of Alais, the Huguenots lost their territorial and military rights."

"I am well aware of that Captain," the Cardinal countered. "It seems we might have another rebellion brewing."

Louis bristled. "If these rumors should prove true, these people already have the means to launch a serious attack. Countermeasures must be taken at once."

"The first step is to verify the credibility of the threat," Treville established. "Where is this informant?"

"In a situation such as this he has standing orders to gather the available evidence and report to Château de Fontainebleau as soon as he is able," Richelieu explained. "He should be en route by now."

"Then let me send Athos to the Château to escort him to Paris."

The King stopped pacing and came to stand in front of Treville, arms clasped behind his back. "No," he disagreed. "In light of the seriousness of this claim, the Cardinal finds it prudent that we rely on your superior experience and I happen to agree. You will ride to the Château where you will question the informant and review the cargo documents. Depending on your threat assessment Captain, we will decide if a military strike needs to be considered."

A feeling of unease crept up Treville's spine, causing him to straighten. "Very well. I will make preparations and leave before midday."

At the King's nod of dismissal, Treville bowed his head.

As he turned toward the door, he caught a fleeting glance of the devious smile that crinkled the lines around the Cardinal's eyes. The captain's fists clenched at the gesture for experience warned him of the darkness that lurked behind that expression.

"And Captain?" Louis called, interrupting Treville's thoughts. "I hope there is no need to remind you that this is a matter of the utmost importance. I expect your full report within three days time."

"Of course, your Majesty."

§§§

Wednesday morning

While Aramis' body tingled from the effects of battle, the depletion of adrenaline causing his limbs to slightly tremble, he holstered his pistol, regretting the fact that it remained unloaded but not willing to delay getting to Treville another second.

Parting the leaves and needles surrounding his weapon on the forest floor, he wrapped gloved fingers around the hilt of his rapier, the throb of his wound but a distant memory as he returned the sword to its sheath. He placed one foot beneath him to push off the ground, then sprinted toward the sound of Treville's distress before he ever remembered the decision to do so.

The landscape blurred past in golden shadows as he navigated the obstacle course of trees and roots in a dead run. Reaching behind him, Aramis unsheathed his main gauche, concentrating his efforts on speed rather than stealth since the cover of darkness was no longer at his disposal.

When the angry shout of a stranger reached his ears, Aramis urged his legs to pump faster. Ignoring the burn inside his lungs, he barely flinched when a low hanging branch whipped his cheek as he sped past another tree, the trickle of blood cooling rapidly with the rushing air.

Over a wall of shrubs, Aramis glimpsed the clearing beyond. His breath caught in his throat when he spotted a stranger brandishing his sword, advancing on Treville's prone position with determined strides. The captain laid on his back, framed on both sides by the lifeless bodies of two attackers, clutching his shoulder with a death grip.

Aramis forced himself to avert his eyes from Treville's pain stricken features, focusing instead on the immediate threat.

As the last of Treville's opponents circled his sword with a twist of his wrist, the blade caught the pale rays of dawn and scattered them across the clearing in a burst of light.

Leaping over the hedge, Aramis drew his arm back mid-flight and hurled his dagger with the force and precision of a crossbow. Treville's adversary barely found time to turn his head toward the unexpected interruption before the blade drilled into his chest. Blood oozed from the assailant's mouth as he collapsed forward, his last pending breath forever trapped inside his lungs.

When Aramis' feet landed onto solid ground, he allowed his momentum to carry him forward, rolling over his shoulder with his head tugged into his body, completing his acrobatic display in a crouching stance.

"You sure know how to make an entrance," Treville forced through gritted teeth as he worked himself up onto his right elbow and cradled his injured arm to his chest. "And I must say, your timing is impeccable."

"I aim to please," Aramis said as he pushed to his feet and closed the distance between himself and the enemy with a few steps. Taking a firm hold of his main gauche, his face distorted with a snarl when he yanked the blade free from his opponent's chest, dead eyes staring up at him in accusation.

As a soldier, Aramis understood the necessity of death; he had killed many in his efforts to protect the King, the citizens of Paris and his brothers. Yet, he still failed to suppress the chill in his veins whenever the need arose.

He turned toward his captain, wiping the blade on his breeches before sliding it into the sheath behind his back. "Are you alright?" Aramis asked as he let himself fall to his knees next to Treville to assess the man's condition.

"I will be. Once you put it back in place," the captain bit out between panting breaths, clutching at his shoulder. "Can't seem… to move it."

Having seen his share of dislocated joints, Aramis found no reason to second guess the diagnosis. After all, the deformity was glaringly obvious as the left shoulder hung visibly lower than the right.

Nodding his head, he slid his left hand beneath Treville's elbow while grasping the wrist with his right to bend the forearm at a ninety-degree angle. "This will be over in a second," Aramis promised.

"Just get on with it," Treville growled, the muscles in his jaw ready to snap under the pressure of gritted teeth.

Aramis firmly pulled on the injured limb to create traction, ignoring the groan Treville failed to stifle and listened for the sound that would indicate that the head of the humerus slid under the bone of the shoulder blade and back into its socket.

When the tell-tale pop reached his ears, Aramis looked at Treville and released his hold. "There. How do you feel?"

"Annoyed," Treville huffed on a harsh exhale, trying to regain his composure. Their eyes met when the captain carefully rolled his shoulder to test mobility. "It worked," he stated, even as the movement added to his pallor and pinched his eyes in pain. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

Aramis would have liked to grant Treville a moment to catch his breath but the oppressive silence that had settled around them urged him onward, and a sudden sense of dread sent a shiver down his spine, issuing the command to move.

"Will you be able to manage?" he asked as he pushed to his feet, extending his good arm to assist his captain.

Despite the masking effects of the adrenaline still ruling over Aramis' body, the hibernating throb living inside his wound started to warn him against unnecessary movement lest he exacerbate blood loss.

"I will," grumbled Treville as he pushed off the ground to sit up. Awkwardly grasping the proffered hand with his right, the captain allowed Aramis to pull him to his feet but frowned at the bloodied leathers concealing Aramis' injury. "Will you?"

"It's nothing more than a scratch," Aramis tried, knowing that regardless of the response, they could ill afford to linger any longer.

Treville did not ponder the statement before he shook his head. "You're not supposed to lie to your superior officer, Aramis." His eyes belied the edge to his voice as they carefully tracked the dark stain across Aramis' forearm.

For better or worse, he was spared any further scrutiny when the sudden drum of hoofbeats reached their ears. The captain's eyes snapped up to meet his and understanding passed between them in a silent language learned through patience and mutual respect.

It was time to familiarize themselves with the proportions of their unfortunate situation.

Treville bent low to retrieve his fallen sword and dagger with stiff movements, keeping his injured arm immobilized as best he could.

Though relocated successfully, Aramis knew from experience that the connection between the captain's shoulder joint and socket would remain unstable for some time.

When he also considered the wound that hampered his own mobility, Aramis had to question their odds of survival against a relentless enemy and once again sorely missed the presence of his brothers.

Returning his focus to the task at hand, Aramis freed his pistol from his belt and dug through his leather pouch for a paper cartridge. Tearing it open with his teeth, he used a small amount of powder to prime the pan, then dumped the remaining shot into the barrel. Dropping the lead ball in after the powder, he used his ramrod to pack the charge with practiced movements.

Stuffing the loaded pistol into his belt, Aramis turned to the bodies on the ground. Reaching down, he retrieved two loaded pistols and an arquebus, knowing their owners would no longer miss them.

Extending his arm, he handed one of the pistols to Treville. "Ready?" Aramis asked, the weight of the loaded weapons acting like a balm on his nerves.

Treville met his eyes with a tilt of his head. "Here goes nothing."

Crossing the clearing together, droplets of morning dew transferred from grass to leather, their hurried steps destroying the glittery effect of reflecting sunlight as they moved toward the trees and an unknown number of enemies.

The forest on this side of the clearing revealed a forty foot drop just beyond the treeline. Reaching the brink of the ravine, Aramis crouched behind a large boulder, concealing himself from any prying eyes below. Peering around the rock, he studied the steep wall carved of sandstone falling away in front of him, crowded with bushes and vines.

The beat of hooves rapidly amplified as the advancing party drew closer, scaring a flock of birds into frenzied flight. Aramis directed his eyes to the path at the bottom of the cliff where an entire contingent of more than two dozen riders emerged from the east navigating bark and brush at a steady walk.

"This would be the main posse, I presume," Treville ventured, crouching behind the trunk of an oak large enough to hide a man twice his size. "The six men at the campsite must have been scouts sent to find us. What scheme do you believe this is?"

Aramis watched the group advance in a single file and noted the absence of identifying colors or crests. Similar to the men they had previously disposed of, everyone bore leather uniforms with hats drawn low to shroud their identities in shadows.

"At the risk of stating the obvious," Aramis replied, "their purpose appears to be singlemindedly geared toward our demise. But as for their reasons, I could only guess." Contemplating the matter further, Aramis tilted his head as a thought occurred to him. "It could be an attempt to halt our investigation into the shipment."

"Perhaps," Treville considered, an air of disbelief clinging to his words and a spark of doubt visible in his eyes.

"But you don't believe so?" Aramis guessed.

"I'm uncertain what to believe," admitted Treville, "But my gut tells me that this has nothing to do with our investigation."

Aramis nodded. "I would never be foolish enough to question your gut."

Shifting his focus, Aramis studied the surrounding terrain, a plan starting to take shape in his mind as he judged the slope of the ravine, gauged the distance between them and the enemy and tracked the path below with his eyes.

"Spit it out," Treville prompted in hushed tones. "I can almost see the wheels turning in your head."

Aramis' lips twitched into a smile. "This slope is too steep to navigate on horseback or on foot," he started, "and anyone who wants to climb it would have to follow the path below until they reached a more accessible area. As far as I can tell, the first opportunity to gain access to this ridge is approximately fifty yards west of our position."

"I believe I know where this is going," Treville interjected. "Not to dampen your mood, but I count thirty-one men. Even with five firearms between us, we can't possibly reload fast enough to stop them. They'll be upon us before we can dispatch half their number."

"We are on higher ground and we hold the element of surprise," Aramis countered. "This might be our best, if not only chance to diminish their numbers."

"This is not the brilliant plan I was hoping for," Treville muttered.

"More of a last resort, perhaps," Aramis conceded. "But considering Athos does not expect us to return for another two days…"

"We're on our own," Treville finished his sentence. "On the bright side, if we are to die, at least we'll take a few of those bastards with us."

"My thoughts exactly," Aramis agreed as he pulled his newly acquired arquebus from his belt. Rolling onto his stomach, he positioned himself next to the boulder, waiting for the riders beneath to come within firing range.

Precise timing would be crucial.

Sighting his weapon, Aramis drew a measured breath of air into his lungs as he lined up his shot.

With the intention of creating maximum chaos and perhaps a pile up of horses, he directed the barrel of his arquebus at the first man in the procession and pulled the trigger.

The weapon discharged with a clap of thunder, the familiar scent of powder stinging his nostrils as he watched the ball enter the hat of his target at a downward angle to bury itself into the skull beneath.

When horses reared and shouts of surprise and anger combined into a high-pitched song of distress, Aramis rolled sideways over his shoulder, coming to a stop on his back behind the rock. Dropping the arquebus, he exchanged the spent weapon for two pistols and performed another sideways roll to take position on the other side of the boulder.

Firing both weapons at once, the recoil hit him with the force of a tidal wave and an agonizing tremor seized the damaged muscles inside his arm. Fortunately, his aim proved true regardless and he watched with gritted teeth as another two souls parted with their bodies when the lead balls dug into flesh unimpeded.

This time the collective roar of the enemy was followed by action as most of the men on the path below overcame the initial shock and aimed their weapons in his direction. Aramis scrambled for cover, seeking refuge behind the boulder before a volley of lead impacted on rock and sent bits of sandstone into the air.

As soon as the majority of the bombardment ceased, Treville returned fire, taking charge of the attack.

Sitting with his back against the rock, Aramis sucked air into his lungs to counteract the pain threatening to steal his focus and dug into the pouch on his belt for two paper cartridges. Choosing to ignore the wet fingers of blood that slipped down his arm to line his glove, he concentrated on reloading his weapons.

"They're headed for the slope," Treville yelled over the cacophony of battle as he pulled the trigger to send another ball on its deadly journey. "It's almost time to move." With the agonized scream of his last victim echoing from below, the captain crouched down behind the oak and started to reload.

As the next hail of lead balls concentrated on splintering the bark of Treville's hiding place, Aramis chanced a glance around his rock and saw nine men on foot sprinting toward the incline that would lead them to the top of the ridge.

Not trusting his right arm to successfully deliver another kill shot, Aramis extended his left and fired, the ball racing to catch its target. When the lead object buried itself into the back it was meant for, Aramis watched the man crumple to the ground at the same time the other eight scrambled to climb the ravine and disappear from sight.

"Definitely time to move," Aramis urged as he jumped to his feet. "We have less than a minute now."

"Let's not waste it then," decided Treville. "If we move fast we might reach the horses before they catch up."

Together, they broke through the treeline, sprinting across the clearing with shouts of anger wafting behind them like a billow of smoke.

Stuffing the spent pistol into his belt, Aramis kept hold of the loaded arquebus as their feet devoured the distance between them and the edge of the forest on the other side of the clearing.

A ball meant for Aramis' back impacted with the oak tree next to him, splintering bark that scratched his face, causing him to stumble.

Their pursuers had reached the meadow.

"Keep going," Treville shouted as he grasped Aramis' elbow to help him regain his footing. "We're almost there."

Together they set off again, navigating trees and brush. When the smoky remnants of their campfire came into view, Aramis ordered his tired body to maintain speed as exertion and blood loss worked to further deplete his energy and his hammering heart threatened to break through his chest wall.

Rounding the last pine between them and the horses, his heart leapt into his throat at the scene before him.

Crouched on the ground, two men were rummaging through the Musketeer's saddle bags, water skins and provisions scattered about the forest floor.

Aramis lost a fraction of a second as his mind worked to realize that another three scouts had found their campsite and decided to raid their supplies.

As four firearms rose simultaneously in a deadly match for survival, Aramis cursed his slow reaction and hoped that his waning strength would allow him to rectify his mistake.

The roar of four weapons reverberated within the forest and Aramis' lungs failed to draw breath when the heat of a whizzing ball passed his cheek.

The Musketeer's shots struck true, piercing their opponent's upper bodies with a spray of blood. Both men pitched forward when death extended its hand to claim them.

After allowing a split second to assure himself that Treville remained unharmed, Aramis glanced over his shoulder. As of yet, he found no trace of their pursuers but failed to shake the growing sense of dread that threatened to tie a noose around his heart.

Not a moment later the answer hit him like the force of Porthos' fist.

Three. The other two scouting parties had consisted of three men.

"Aramis? If we are to escape, now is the time."

The captain's words only skirted the edges of Aramis' awareness as his eyes flitted over the surrounding foliage, searching…

Nestled into the underbrush less than twenty yards away, he spotted the third culprit and the gleam of a musket. "Watch out!" Aramis yelled, as his eyes tracked the trajectory of the barrel.

His body rushed forward without conscious thought, plowing into Treville in his urgent attempt to remove the captain from the line of fire.

When both Musketeers barreled onto the ground and Aramis' mangled arm caught beneath them, the blast of the musket barely registered in his mind as a torrent of pain ripped through his limb.

His breath rushed from his lungs with the impact on hard soil, and as the world tilted dangerously around him it proved impossible to distinguish up from down.

"Aramis?"

Twenty seconds, thought Aramis. The shooter requires no more than twenty seconds to reload.

"Aramis?" Treville tried again. "Are you hit?"

"No, m' good," Aramis slurred, desperate to regain his bearings. "We need to move."

"I know that," blurted Treville as he grasped Aramis' elbow and hauled him to his feet. "Come on."

Fifteen seconds left...

Reaching the horses with two stumbling steps, Treville untied the reins while Aramis placed one foot into his stirrup and dragged himself into the saddle one handed. Working hard to draw enough air into his starving lungs, he attempted to ignore the white hot pain licking at his wounded arm and waited for Treville to mount his horse.

Five seconds...

Angry shouts and the sounds of hurried steps resonated through the maze of trees, announcing the arrival of their pursuers.

Treville's eyes flashed with purpose as he swung atop his horse. He pressed his legs around the animal's belly, his ire still present in his steely expression when he commanded his steed forward.

The clock struck zero before they reached the cover of the trees and the roar of a musket shattered the illusion of a clean getaway.

The ball ripped through Aramis' upper right side, the pressure of the impact along his ribs propelling his body forward and forcing him to cling to his horse's mane in an effort to stay in the saddle.

Drowning in pain, his senses turned dormant and he couldn't focus on anything past the need to hold on when his horse pitched forward into a frenzied run.

TBC

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I hope you enjoyed and would love to hear your thoughts :)

A/N: I am still editing chapter 3. It should be up in a week or so.


	3. Chapter 3

A big thank you to everyone who is following and reviewing this story, you're the best :) A special thank you also to all the guest reviewers I can't reply to personally.

I also need to thank my beta DeadshotMusketeer for her continued patience and support. This chapter would not be the same without her help.

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 3

Tuesday morning

Sitting on the courtyard table next to Athos, feet braced on the bench below and elbows resting on his thighs, d'Artagnan carved another slice from the apple in his hand as he watched Aramis' rapier clash against Porthos' broadsword with exploding enthusiasm.

A sparring match between the two friends always promised great entertainment as it pitted Porthos' strength against Aramis' agility in a show of evenly matched skill.

Plopping the piece of fruit into his mouth, d'Artagnan followed every strike and parry, the song of metal accompanying the dance of two soldiers adept at their craft.

The spell cast on d'Artagnan by the masterful performance shattered when Aramis' defense suddenly lacked effectiveness, leaving the marksman vulnerable to Porthos' vigorous force. As the larger man pushed his schiavona forward with skillful precision, Aramis lost his footing and stumbled backward to land on his rear in a cloud of dust.

D'Artagnan's brows knitted together as he tried to reconcile the display before him with Aramis' usual grace in combat. "What's with him?" he asked Athos while his eyes remained locked on Aramis. "He seems distracted."

When he failed to receive a reply, even after Porthos lowered his sword and extended a hand to haul Aramis to his feet, d'Artagnan turned to investigate Athos' silence. "Apparently, so are you," he muttered, noticing the distant stare in his lieutenant's eyes.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan called, bumping a fist into his mentor's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Before Athos provided an explanation for his absent mind, d'Artagnan's attention shifted to the archway when the vibration of hoofbeats heralded Captain Treville's return from the palace.

"I believe we are about to find out," Athos predicted as he hopped off the table.

Dismounting his horse, Treville relinquished the reins to the stable boy and crossed the courtyard with determined strides.

"My office," ordered the captain as he marched past them to climb the stairs two at a time. "Now."

When d'Artagnan slid off the table to stand next to Athos, he caught his lieutenant's gaze before the older man moved to follow Treville. A shadow darkened Athos' features as his lips pressed together and his brow furrowed, alerting d'Artagnan to his lieutenant's apprehension.

Before he could ponder the matter further, d'Artagnan recalled his earlier observation when he saw Aramis brushing dust off his leathers.

Waiting at the foot of the stairs for his friends to catch up, d'Artagnan looked closely at Aramis. "Are you alright? he asked.

The marksman exhaled sharply, his voice laced with annoyance. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Ah, I don't know," d'Artagnan quipped as they climbed the stairs together. "You're not usually one to trip over your own feet."

Porthos' bark of laughter slapped the air. "That's exactly what I said."

"Unbelievable," Aramis huffed, shaking his head. "One tiny misstep hardly calls for this much attention. I assure you, everything is fine."

When the marksman moved ahead to cross the threshold into the office, d'Artagnan caught Porthos' gaze; the upward flick of his friends' eyebrows announcing the larger man's skepticism in regards to Aramis' claim.

Their silent conversation ended as d'Artagnan stepped through the open doorway, Porthos following closely behind.

"Shut the door," Treville instructed, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest.

"Did we receive orders from the palace?" inquired Athos when the door latched behind Porthos.

"I did," Treville replied, the simple statement causing d'Artagnan to shift his stance in anticipation of the news. "I was ordered to ride to Château de Fontainebleau to investigate a possible uprising in LaRochelle. The informant who brought forth the claim is en route to the Château."

Athos' back stiffened. "What is the nature of the threat?"

"According to the message we received, a shipment of arms was delivered to a Huguenot gathering in LaRochelle."

Porthos stepped forward. "Firepower?"

"Enough weapons and gunpowder to start another rebellion," replied Treville.

"Let us come with you," Athos suggested. "After we question the informant, two of us can continue on to LaRochelle and investigate the matter first hand."

Treville slowly shook his head. "No," he said. "The King wants to know if there is any credibility to the claim before further action is taken." With a sigh, the captain hung his head for a moment, as if considering his next words. When his eyes lifted to look at his soldiers, d'Artagnan recognized renewed resolve.

"There is something else," Treville started. "You don't survive in this line of work for as long as I have without knowing when you're being lied to. Richelieu is playing one of his games and I can't even begin to guess his agenda."

"Perhaps he is looking to take advantage of the situation?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Treville agreed. "He seemed particularly eager to see me leave Paris. Whatever his intentions, there is certainly more to the matter than I'm privy to."

Pushing away from the table, the captain regarded each of them. "This is why I need you to remain in Paris and ensure the King's safety in my absence."

"An' keep an eye on the Cardinal," Porthos surmised.

"Precisely."

"Still," d'Artagnan voiced, the knot in his stomach urging him to display caution. "You shouldn't ride alone."

"He won't be alone," Aramis interjected, breaking his silence. The marksman stepped forward with purpose, his eyes bright with determination as he met Treville's gaze. "I will accompany you."

When Treville failed to respond immediately, Aramis pushed on. "The three of them are equipped to handle anything the Cardinal may have in store and d'Artagnan is right; because we're not privy to all the facts, you shouldn't undertake this mission by yourself."

The captain hesitated another moment before reluctantly nodding his head. "So be it," he conceded, holding Aramis' stare. "We leave within the hour."

Nodding his assent, Aramis turned and moved to the door.

When d'Artagnan's gaze studied the men next to him, he found his own unease mirrored in Athos' creased brow and Porthos' rigid posture. He could only hope the sense of foreboding clawing at his heart proved to be a product of his overactive mind.

§§§

Wednesday morning

The sun had traveled its God-given path since their daring escape from the campsite and gauging the position it currently held in the sky, Treville estimated the battlefield lay about an hour behind them.

Showing no signs of exhaustion, their horses reliably navigated the path ahead, eliciting confidence that the animals would continue for many leagues before requiring rest.

The cover of the forest had aided their initial escape with tall pines and oaks forging a wall of motionless soldiers that stood in their defense. Each step of their horses had carried the musketeers further from battle; the shouts of the furious crowd behind them swallowed by the increasing distance between the two parties.

Treville's first instinct had been to follow the original plan and head toward the Château to seek refuge within its walls. However, he had dismissed the idea, for their current situation suggested their mission details had been compromised and more hostiles might be awaiting their arrival.

Glancing over his shoulder at the man riding behind him, Treville attempted to assess Aramis' condition as he had done every few minutes since their break from camp. Treville's concern had mounted in earnest once Aramis stopped protesting the constant attention, perhaps to focus his efforts on a battle that seemed to rage within him.

Since last he checked, the marksman had hunched over, his damp curls falling into his face and reminding Treville that Aramis' hat had fallen victim to the ambush at the campsite.

Bracing his left hand against the horse's neck to keep a semblance of balance, Aramis cradled his right arm tightly against his side, supporting Treville's suspicions that the injury to Aramis' forearm would prove more extensive than his soldier had let on.

When Treville's gaze caught on the blood-stained sleeve, the sweat beading on Aramis' brow and the fine tremors rocking his frame, the captain's eyes narrowed in response.

The other course of action Treville had considered, undertaking the day long ride to Paris, threatened to be an unattainable goal as the severity of the situation began to take shape.

Treville decided he needed to know the extent of the damage. "We stop," he called as he gazed forward, searching the immediate area for a suitable site. The low wall of boulders just ahead would serve his purpose as their half-circled formation would provide a semblance of cover. "There."

"We should keep moving," Aramis urged, forcing his back to straighten in a show of stubborn resolve yet unable to stop the pain from taking control of his features. "They will surely follow our trail."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Treville agreed even as he pulled the reins, commanding his horse to halt inside the crescent-shaped rock formation to forestall any further arguments. Swinging one leg over the rear of his mount, Treville jumped to the forest floor, fighting to ignore the torrent of pain that swept through his injured shoulder and worked to impede his balance.

Drawing a measured breath to steady himself, he faced Aramis, reading trepidation in hooded eyes as the marksman hesitated to dismount his horse. Treville followed his instincts when he stepped closer and grasped Aramis' reins, waiting for the other man to move.

Following Treville's example, the younger musketeer swung one leg over the rear of his mount, dragging himself out of the saddle. The sound of crunching leaves beneath Aramis' boots issued the only warning before buckling knees threatened to drop the injured man to the ground.

Reaching forward, Treville caught Aramis around his midsection, effectively halting his descent. "Alright now," he cautioned. "Take it easy."

When Treville tightened his hold for support, Aramis issued a low moan, his eyes pinched while his heaving chest rivaled for attention with the ivory tinge to his skin.

Frowning, Treville glanced down to discover a tear in Aramis' leathers, blood oozing from a gash just below his ribs. A spark ignited Treville's temper, seeking to override the concern twisting his insides when he realized that his hold jarred a wound he hadn't known existed.

"You said you weren't shot!"

"I wasn't!" Aramis bristled in a show of defiance only to deflate a moment later. "At the time."

Treville grunted his displeasure but adjusted his hold to relieve the strain on Aramis' injured side. "Of all the pig-headed things…" he muttered, watching the marksman press his wounded arm to the tear below his ribs to keep the blood at bay.

Shaking his head in silent disapproval, Treville directed their steps to the center of the rock formation. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"We couldn't afford to stop," Aramis defended his actions. Withdrawing from Treville's support, he braced his left hand against the rock before him, guiding himself down to sit on the ground.

"Still can't," he continued, wincing as his back connected with the solid support of the boulder. "Besides, the ball merely grazed my ribs."

"Right," snapped Treville, his tone hard. "Much like the wound to your arm is only a scratch? Do not insult my intelligence!"

Aramis closed his eyes, his voice a mere whisper. "Believe me, that is not my intent."

Sighing, Treville removed his hat to slide gloved fingers through his hair in an effort to calm his nerves and wondered how he managed to cope with the special brand of stubbornness some of the men under his command exhibited.

Crouching in front of his soldier, Treville returned his hat to its rightful place and rested a conciliatory hand on Aramis' knee. "We have a few minutes," he explained, his tone even. "They wouldn't have followed on foot but will have to return to the bottom of the cliff to retrieve their horses. And locating an alternate path to join our trail will take some time."

Nodding slowly, Aramis opened his eyes. "Alright," he conceded. "What would you have us do?" One-handed he undid the clasp on his weapons belt, sliding it free of his waist. "I remained silent because there is little to be done. All of our supplies were lost at the campsite." One by one Aramis unlatched the fastenings on his doublet and then leaned forward to shrug free of the material. "Including the water skins."

At the mention of water, Treville's tongue darted over dry lips, silently conceding the fact that the loss of their skins would pose a problem sooner rather than later.

"One problem at a time," he decided, lifting the hem of Aramis' shirt to gain access to his wounded side.

Along the bottom of Aramis' ribcage, parted flesh and muscle greeted Treville.

Though the shot had grazed rather than penetrated, the furrow went deep enough that blood escaped in rivulets of red.

Taking hold of the sash that lay next to Aramis' weapons, Treville pressed the material to the wound before guiding the marksman's left hand to his side, prompting him to hold the bandage in place.

"The ball left a furrow beneath your ribs," Treville explained while he moved to push up the blood-stained sleeve covering the wound on Aramis' arm.

The marksman's lips twitched with a smile while he rested his head against the rock behind him. "I told you. Merely a graze."

"Excuse me when I don't share your enthusiasm," admonished Treville, pausing his movements to gift Aramis with a stare he usually reserved for raw recruits. "Maintain pressure on that gash. We'll see if the bleeding slows before your face loses the last bit of color it's clung to."

Aramis' smile slowly faded as acknowledgment of the situation darkened his eyes.

Returning his line of sight to the bloody mess before him, Treville began to unwind the saturated bandage clinging to the damaged skin of Aramis' forearm. Upon closer inspection, he noticed an almost black tinge to the fluid and felt his insides contract. "This needs attention. Now."

"I would agree with you... except all of our supplies…"

"...are gone. Yes, I know." Treville frowned at the repetitive piece of information and breathless quality of Aramis' words. Lifting his gaze to study the other man's features, Treville felt a growing sense of unease at the sight of a sweaty brow and ashen skin.

Forcing himself to avert his eyes and focus on the task at hand, Treville proceeded to lift the sodden piece of fabric and flinched at the low groan Aramis failed to stifle.

Treville's forehead creased as he stared at a dark layer of blood clinging to exposed skin like a wet blanket. Two puncture wounds continued to expel the vital fluid, prompting him to clamp his gloved hand over the injury. When rivulets of dark-red squeezed through his fingers, Treville thought to remove Aramis' glove to gain unimpeded access to the arm.

Pulling the leather free from Aramis' hand, Treville found himself unprepared for the volume of crimson that had gathered inside. The substance dripping off the marksman's fingertips issued a dire warning written in red ink.

"Damn it, Aramis," Treville blurted, unable to control his temper in the face of this bloody tableau. "This looks like you've lost half your blood supply."

Aramis' composed stare revealed neither surprise nor remorse. "We couldn't afford… to stop."

Exhaling sharply, Treville cursed the circumstances that had prompted his soldier to keep the extent of his injuries hidden. While Treville's frustrations boiled close to the surface and threatened to cloud his judgment, he realized their continued survival hinged on the assumption that he continued to think clearly.

Drawing a measured breath, Treville ordered his thoughts to stand to attention. "While certainly not a preferred option," he said, "I see no choice but to burn this shut. You're losing too much blood."

Aramis shook his head. "There is no time to start a fire and stoke it hot enough to heat steel."

Treville frowned. "Tell me," the captain prompted, ignoring the marksman's statement. "What are the symptoms of blood loss?" When knitted brows further distorted Aramis' pained features, Treville attempted to elicit compliance to his request by pressing him further. "Humour me."

Aramis' eyes locked on his. "Moist skin and... dizziness," he started. "Fast pulse. Shortness of breath. And possibly confusion."

"Right," Treville agreed, his tone softening in the face of the symptoms Aramis already exhibited. "Any of that sound familiar?" Placing his free hand on Aramis's thigh, he squeezed the muscles beneath his gloved hand, hoping the contact would strengthen his words. "We will not leave here until we stop this bleeding. Do you understand?"

Aramis glanced downward with an almost imperceptible nod.

"Alright." Treville reached into the pouch on his belt. "Now. We don't require actual flames to cauterize the wound," he explained. "You know this. I've watched you do it." Presenting the paper cartridge, he held it up for Aramis to see.

"Powder," the marksman muttered under his breath. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because," Treville sighed, "you can't focus." Placing the cartridge on the ground next to him, he glanced at Aramis' wound and his own reddened glove as his hand kept pressure. Staring at the abundance of crimson, he realized cauterization would fail unless he found a way to at least stem the flow.

"There is too much blood," agreed the marksman. "Use the sash and tie it above the wound. That should slow the bleeding some."

Treville nodded, reaching into his inside pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. "Here. Use this for your ribs." After replacing one makeshift bandage with another, Treville opened the once blue material to its full length and looped it around Aramis' arm, pulling it tight.

Forcing himself to ignore the strangled grunt of pain that slipped from his soldier's lips, Treville knotted the material into place, relieved to see that the bleeding had slowed.

Taking hold of the cartridge once more, he tore into the paper with his teeth and tipped the small container to deposit the powder into both puncture wounds caused by the blade.

"You should not have kept this from me," Treville muttered as he worked, using his frustration to disguise his thinly veiled concern.

"Perhaps," Aramis conceded, the sting of the powder causing his breath to fire in short bursts. "Don't tell... Porthos?"

Treville scoffed."You should have thought of that particular consequence before you decided to act like a stubborn fool."

Ignoring the marksman's indignant huff, Treville searched his immediate surroundings and reached for a stick that would serve his purpose. He wrapped the now empty paper cartridge around the piece of wood and ignited his makeshift torch by striking a piece of flint against his main gauche.

"Are you ready for this?" Treville asked as he wrapped his fingers around the small torch.

"Do I have a choice?"

"I'm afraid not."

Aramis nodded. "Then it's best to get on with it," he declared as he closed his eyes and let his head fall against the rock behind him, resigning himself to his fate.

Drawing a lungful of air, Treville attempted to calm the nerves that fluttered inside his gut and forced his hand to remain steady as he lowered the burning stick to connect with the first of the puncture wounds on Aramis' arm.

The fire ignited the gunpowder inside the wound with a sputtering hiss, melting damaged flesh.

Aramis' back arched, his arm twitching under the torture. "Shit... Aah!"

Blinking against the sting of sweat in his eyes, Treville clamped his free hand around Aramis' wrist to stall the tremor and hurried to ignite the other cut.

With the second flash of heat, Aramis' scream tore from his chest, the sound of his anguish bouncing off the surrounding rock wall as effectively as a ricocheting shot.

When a whiff of charred flesh assaulted his nose, Treville swallowed against the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. "It's done," he called, placing his hand over Aramis' heart in an effort to penetrate the curtain of misery surrounding his soldier. "Deep breaths."

With a low moan, Aramis' head slumped forward, damp curls covering his face.

"No, no. Stay with me," implored Treville, moving his hand to cup Aramis' neck and hoping the contact would anchor his soldier to the present. "I know this hurts but you must stay conscious."

"Mmh," Lifting his head off his chest with effort, Aramis struggled to blink his eyes open. "What's in it... for me?" he mumbled, his voice no more than a whisper.

Treville breathed a laugh of relief, squeezing his fingers around the muscles in Aramis' neck. "Tell you what," he said, his voice like sandpaper. "If we survive this, I'll have Serge cook your favorite meal."

Despite the pain shimmering in the depth of Aramis' gaze, his lips curved into a smile.

Convinced that his soldier would cling to consciousness, Treville switched focus. Studying the red melted flesh of the puncture wounds, he breathed a sigh of relief when he found them properly sealed.

"This looks alright," he stated, his fingers working to untie the knot in the sash and release the blood back to the injured limb. "I only wish we had water and alcohol to clean it properly."

As blood flow restored, Aramis flexed his hand, flinching at the movement.

"Do you still have feeling in your hand?" Treville asked as Aramis' creased brow cast a shadow over his features.

"I have mobility," the marksman confirmed as he formed a fist, a small tremor still present in his movements. "But my grip is without strength."

Treville recognized the concern simmering in the younger man's guarded stare. "Give it time." Treville locked his gaze on Aramis', his voice strengthened by the weight of his conviction when he promised, "you'll be alright."

Aramis exhaled slowly, allowing Treville to witness pain and uncertainty reign over exhausted features. The moment passed quickly and true to Aramis' nature, the young musketeer clamped down on his emotions and successfully concealed any outward sign of weakness.

Clearing his throat, Aramis pushed free of the wall at his back to sit up straight. "We must decide where to go," he established as he cradled his injured arm close to his chest. "I don't think it wise to continue on to the Château. I have a distinct feeling our arrival would be expected."

Treville nodded his head. "Neither can we chance the return journey to Paris," he stated while he took hold of his main gauche. Cutting Aramis' sash into two pieces, he used the shorter strip of cloth to bind the cauterized wound. "It's almost a day's ride under the best of conditions and I'm afraid that current circumstances will prevent us from reaching the city before our pursuers catch up. If we are to make a stand, I would prefer a defensible position."

Half expecting Aramis to protest his decision, he stopped in his movements to search the marksman's gaze. Treville had no desire to draw attention to the fact that Aramis would be physically unable to endure a prolonged journey at high speeds but he would speak his mind if the younger man forced his hand.

When he watched Aramis tilt his head in silent agreement, Treville realized he needn't have worried. Even though Aramis tended to disregard his own limitations, he would not risk both of their lives to prove his endurance.

"There is a small chapel about three hours west of here," Aramis said. "We can reach it by midday and fortify our position there."

"The Chapel Saint Blaise," Treville recalled. Remembering tales about the 12th-century chapel and its history as a lazaret, Treville knew that the small building had since fallen into disrepair and remained vacant to this day.

The chapel would either prove to be their salvation; a sanctuary in which to mount a defense or it would bear witness to their last stand; surrounded by the enemy with nowhere left to turn. Regardless of the outcome, their choices were few.

Treville nodded slowly and nudged Aramis' hand that continued to hold pressure on his wounded side. "All things considered, Saint Blaise might be our best option."

When Aramis lifted the piece of cloth covering his ribs, Treville was relieved to see the bleeding had slowed to a trickle and decided that wrapping the wound would have to suffice for now. Replacing the handkerchief to the gash, he took hold of the second strip of fabric and looped it around Aramis' midsection.

As he secured the bandage with a knot, Treville once again regretted the lack of supplies at their disposal, aware that infection would prove a real threat if they could not clean the injuries properly.

"We need to move," Aramis urged as he pulled his shirt down, wincing at the motion. "They won't be far behind."

Nodding, Treville took hold of his soldier's doublet and held it open for Aramis to ease his arms inside. When the movement caused the younger man's eyes to slam shut, Treville felt regret burn in his belly but pushed on regardless. "Let's get you up," he instructed, grasping Aramis' left arm to pull him to his feet.

The sudden change in elevation shattered Aramis' equilibrium and Treville strengthened his hold on the younger man as a groan escaped the marksman's lips and his legs threatened to fold beneath him. Offering his steadfast presence as silent support, Treville waited patiently for Aramis to overcome the tremor that held his body hostage.

"It doesn't seem fair," Aramis ground out between clenched teeth as he fought to control his breathing.

Treville's brow furrowed in response. The situation would prove dire indeed if Aramis was about to acknowledge the debilitating effect of his injuries. "What doesn't?" he asked with trepidation, uncertain if he wanted to hear the answer.

"That I would be the one to lose my hat," the marksman complained, a smile twitching his lips. "I loath to travel without it."

Treville huffed a laugh. "You're right. That's unacceptable," he replied, playing along to grant Aramis another moment to compose himself. "If we survive this, I'll personally see to it you receive a replacement."

Breathing deeply, Aramis stepped back to stand on his own and Treville felt a sense of relief when the marksman didn't sway. "That's very considerate of you, Captain."

"Don't thank me," Treville warned and turned toward his horse to hide his smile. "I'll take it out of your commission."

TBC

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I really hope you enjoyed and would love to hear what you think :)


	4. Chapter 4

I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's one of my favorites :)

As always, a huge thank you to my beta DeadshotMusketeer for all her hard work!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 4

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Wednesday morning, pre-dawn

Only the moon bore witness as Athos strode across the garrison courtyard toward the staircase. Without due justification, his gut had twisted into knots when the captain was ordered to the palace the day prior. Since Treville and Aramis left to ride for Fontainbleau, Athos' sense of unease had only increased.

Athos tried to ease his mind with a bottle of wine but found his usual choice of poison failed to quiet his errant thoughts. As sleep proved impossible, he decided to head to Treville's office to familiarize himself with the clerical tasks that would require his attention.

Guided by the starry glow of a cloudless sky, Athos climbed the stairs and walked across the balcony, the soles of his boots thumping like drums on the wooden boards in the morning silence. As he reached into his pocket to retrieve the office key Treville entrusted him with, his insides twisted.

The door was already ajar.

Athos wrapped his fingers around the butt of his pistol. A glance through the office window revealed nothing as the darkness beyond refused to divulge its secrets.

Pressing his back against the wall, he closed his eyes. Focusing his hearing, he listened for an intruder beyond the threshold. Several moments passed but his own heartbeat remained the only sound competing with silence and mystery.

Stepping away from the wall, Athos entered the office.

The impenetrable darkness of the room urged him to tighten his grip on his pistol. His spine tingled and his heart thumped in his chest as he came to stand in front of Treville's desk.

Reaching forward, Athos' fingers found a piece of flint and a steel striker in their usual space on the table. Creating a spark, he lit a candle on the desk.

When the soft glow of the flame banned the darkness, Athos realized he was the only occupant in the room. Certain that he had locked the door the day prior, his gaze searched the space in front of him for an explanation or any sign of tampering.

The answer revealed itself when he turned on his heel to scan the other side of the office and found a sheet of parchment pinned to the inside of the door by an ornate dagger.

Holstering his weapon, Athos stepped across creaking floorboards to stand in front of the document, his stomach shifting with unease as his eyes scanned the script written in his wife's familiar hand.

Reaching for the letter, Athos pulled it free of the blade, his mind devouring the words staring at him in black ink.

My Dear Athos,

Before I leave Paris, I choose to share a piece of information that should be of interest to you.

After Richelieu's previous failures to rid himself of your kind, he realized there was an easier way to achieve his goals. He now seeks to take control of the Musketeer regiment rather than destroy it. It is his quest to turn the King's personal guard into the same mindless puppets as his red foot soldiers.

However, the Cardinal fears Treville's influence with the King and knows his plan must fail as long as the Captain lives.

There is neither a shipment of arms in LaRochelle nor an informant at Chateau Fontainebleau. There is, however, a contingent of forty men sent out for a singular purpose: to kill the Captain of the Musketeers.

If Treville dies, the King's ear will be open to Richelieu's suggestions about the future of the regiment.

I am sharing this information with you to wash my hands of the devil I once worked for, and hope that my actions will guide me one step closer to the peace I so desperately crave.

Until we meet again,

Anne

Athos' insides turned to ice.

Unable to avert his eyes from the parchment, the words continued echoing through his mind as his disbelief warred with horror. Forcing himself to breathe, he hoped to quiet his pounding heart.

Athos' focus narrowed to the image this new information created in his head; the image of his captain and Aramis in the vastness of a forest, outmanned and outgunned forty to two.

The thump of approaching footsteps ripped him from his thoughts. Drawing his pistol, Athos turned and aimed for the door.

"Athos," d'Artagnan called as he stepped over the threshold, his hands raised in surrender. "It's us."

When d'Artagnan's voice registered as that of a friend, Athos lowered his weapon. Porthos followed the younger man into the room, seizing Athos with a stare.

"I knew somethin' was up," Porthos declared, moving forward to stand next to Athos. "What is it?"

Without wasting his breath, Athos presented Anne's letter, waiting for the inevitable reaction as both Porthos and d'Artagnan read the words on the parchment.

"Son of a …," Porthos cursed. "This true?"

Athos tilted his head. "We are talking about my wife," he said. "Anything is possible. However, she has no reason to lie about this."

"Whether or not she's telling the truth," d'Artagnan determined. "We can't just ignore the warning."

Porthos' lips turned into a snarl, his eyes flashing brightly. "This time I'll kill 'im with my bare hands."

"I promise you, Richelieu, will get his due," assured Athos, struggling to control the fire threatening to incinerate his calm exterior. "With this one act, he declared war on the entire Musketeer regiment. A man of his intelligence should know that treachery of this sort cannot be overlooked and will be answered accordingly." Bowing his head, Athos exhaled slowly to gather his thoughts. "However, our first concern must be -"

"Treville," d'Artagnan determined with conviction.

With a quick nod, Porthos crossed his arms over his chest. "And Aramis."

While someone else might have missed it, Athos easily recognized the concern hovering in Porthos' rigid posture and the shadows dancing in d'Artagnan's eyes.

"Let's not assume the worst," Athos implored. "They are both skilled, experienced, and resourceful and they will prevail. We must believe that."

Porthos' stance did not ease, but he nodded his agreement.

"Let's bring them home then," d'Artagnan urged.

Squaring his shoulders, Athos nodded, hoping to convey the extent of his determination. "At the first sign of dawn, we ride for Fontainebleau."

§§§

Wednesday, mid-day

As soon as they broke through the treeline, and filed the Forest of Fontainebleau as recent memory, Aramis drove his heels into his horse's side to urge the animal into a canter. The open terrain before them now offered little opportunity for cover, urging them to make haste and reach the protective walls of their new destination, the Chapel Saint Blaise des Simples.

The unimpeded view of the horizon offered a sight to behold as Aramis watched the gathering clouds collide together like a swirling mass of smoke, the morning sun driven into exile by the forces of an approaching storm.

"One might believe the end of the world is upon us," Aramis called, his voice raised above the growing howl of the wind.

Treville glanced over his shoulder, presumably to study the treeline for any sign of movement. "The end of our world perhaps."

"Now, now." Aramis shook his head in a disapproving manner, a tired smile curving his lips as their horses worked to climb a gentle slope. "I've never known you to bow to the odds."

"You should save your energy for something more important than bad jokes," Treville suggested. "Your supply looks to be all but depleted."

It was true, though Aramis would never admit it out loud.

The trek through the forest had gnawed at his reserves. Pain conspired with the effects of blood loss to see him fail in his endeavor to reach the chapel under his own volition.

As he found himself battling persistent dizziness and nausea, remaining in his saddle grew ever more challenging.

When his horse crested the slope with a steady gait, Aramis filled his lungs with air. Focusing on the sweet smell of approaching rain, he tried to counteract his tilting sight and the raging fire beneath his right sleeve.

"There it is," Treville called, indicating the valley before them as he stopped atop the incline.

Following the captain's line of sight, Aramis flooded with relief as he laid eyes on the small brick building at the foot of the hill, barely a hundred yards out.

Having spent a night at the chapel on a previous mission near Milly la Foret, Aramis reconciled the stone structure before him with the memory in his mind.

Remembering the building had only one entrance, his eyes searched it out, but dark arms stretched from the cloud cover above to shroud the chapel in shadows and create the illusion of dusk.

When his search proved fruitful and he found the door, other memories sprang to life.

Recall served that the only room inside the chapel was not much larger than Treville's office and that each wall featured one small window. This would make their position easily defendable as long as their ammunitions did not run out. However, it also meant that escape would be impossible should they fail to dispatch the last of their enemies.

Aramis pulled his legs together to direct his horse onward when thunder shook the earth beneath them.

Searching the horizon in anticipation of lightning, Aramis realized the rhythmic vibrations did not originate in the sky.

"The end of our world, indeed," muttered Aramis as he watched their pursuers break from the tree line behind them in full gallop. The legs of two dozen horses pounded the ground as they reached to devour the five hundred yards separating the hunters from their prey.

"No. You were right," Treville countered with conviction, catching Aramis' eyes with a fiery stare. "We don't allow the odds to beat us. We will mount a defense they won't soon forget!"

"Agreed," Aramis said with steel in his voice.

Then they barreled down the hill, racing to reach their designated sanctuary. As the wind whipped Aramis' face and heaven's gates finally opened to release the flood of rain that had gathered above, he struggled to hold himself in the saddle, every beat of his horse's hooves sending shockwaves of misery through his beaten body.

With heavy raindrops pelting him and the earth around him, Aramis mourned the absence of his hat as the water obscured his vision and further complicated his efforts.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before they reached the chapel hidden behind the curtain of rain; a brick and stone building standing fast in defiance of the elements.

"Woah, woah," Aramis called, tugging his reins. As his horse skidded to a halt in front of the solid wood door, he swung one leg over the front of his saddle to slide to the ground. When his boots splashed into a puddle, Aramis gritted his teeth against the force of the impact, commanding his stuttering lungs to draw breath in hopes of easing the pain that thumped within.

A strong hand seized his upper arm and propelled him forward. "Come on," Treville urged as he pushed against the rounded door, exhaling sharply when it swung open with a groan.

Stumbling over the threshold, Aramis straightened in spite of the crippling sting piercing his side. Cradling his injured arm against his ribs, he attempted to contain his aches by focusing on his surroundings.

Aside from cobwebs, the bare walls inside the chapel revealed no sign of its history nor the hardships it might have witnessed. The long forgotten space before them was just as Aramis remembered from his last visit; empty save for a number of large wooden crates stacked along the far wall.

"The muskets," called Aramis, remembering that his long-distance weapon remained secured to the saddle on his horse. When he looked over his shoulder to find that Treville was already retrieving the firearms and ammunition, Aramis continued on his path to the opposite end of the chamber, brushing his left hand over his face to rid himself of the remnants of water clinging to his skin.

Reaching the first crate, Aramis lifted the lid to find it was empty, then paused to gauge the height of the small window above the entrance. When Treville reentered the chapel, Aramis started to drag the large container across the floor.

As his captain proceeded to latch the door, Aramis shivered when he realized the trap had snapped shut behind them. For better or worse, their fate would be decided right here, in this room. And only the ghosts of the past would bear witness.

Treville deposited their weapons on the floor and scrutinized the large crate before joining Aramis' effort. "This should prove sufficient to barricade the door," the captain surmised as they worked together to push the wooden container against the only entrance to the building.

As the crate slid into place with one final shove, Aramis perched on its edge to regain his breath. Alarmed that minor physical exertion would cause his heart to beat so rapidly, he worked to calm his heaving chest by savoring a few moments of peace.

Indicating the oval window above the door and padding the wood crate he sat on with one hand, Aramis explained, "I was planning to use it as a platform for target practice."

When Treville nodded and his lips curled into a smile, Aramis drew one last deep breath and climbed on top of the crate. Bracing his hand against the wall to ensure his balance, he locked his knees beneath him. Pleased to find the window now level with his head, he turned to Treville with a smirk of his own. "You load, I fire."

The captain's brows knitted together as he regarded Aramis skeptically. "You know that under normal circumstances I would never think to question your aim..."

Aramis lifted his hand as a sign of submission. "I assure you, there is no need to do so now," he promised, hoping to convey his sincerity. "I am well aware of my current limitations and when I reach them, you will be the first to know."

Treville held his gaze for another moment before issuing a brief nod of acceptance. Crouching down, the captain retrieved both muskets from the ground and placed the weapons on the crate next to Aramis. Producing a piece of matchcord from his ammunitions pouch, Treville set about priming the firearms.

Leaving the captain to his task, Aramis turned his attention out the window. The narrow opening to the outside world provided him with a perfect vantage point while also making it impossible for his enemies to return fire with any kind of efficiency.

Freeing his pistol from its holster, Aramis took hold of the barrel and crashed the butt of the weapon into the pane of glass before him. As the window burst into tiny shards, a gust of wind immediately sought to penetrate their defenses, sending cold fingers to squeeze the warmth from the room. "At least we're not outside in this," Aramis muttered as he scanned the hillside for signs of movement.

"Small mercies," Treville replied, handing him the first musket. While the firing pan remained closed, the matchcord burned slowly and the smoky wisps winding their path to the ceiling signified that the weapon was primed for battle.

Aramis used his left hand to hold the weight of the firearm and settled the barrel against the windowsill. Blowing on the matchcord as he had done hundreds of times in the past, the glowing ember calmed his thundering heart.

He settled in to wait. It wouldn't be long now.

The wet curtain that continued to fall from the heavens above significantly hampered visibility and would make it challenging for Aramis to hit a moving target. As his eyes adjusted to the gray world beyond the walls of the chapel, he found himself praying for strength, guidance and a steady hand in the hours to come.

Mere moments passed before the first rider crested the ridgeline in the distance. By military standards, the contingent of men that followed formed a horizontal line; a prerequisite to attack.

For one more heartbeat, the only sound permeating the gray was the continuous drum of rain pelting the roof above before the signal of a falling hand commanded twenty-five horses to surge forward, storming toward the chapel with ground-eating strides.

One Hundred yards...

Opening the firing pan, Aramis sighted the weapon and worked to ignore the torrent of pain slipping through his arm as he wrapped the forefinger of his right hand around the trigger.

Ninety yards.

Patience was key. If he fired too soon, he would surely miss and his plan would be doomed to fail. An accurate shot delivered over this distance would be considered expert marksmanship under the best of conditions.

Eighty yards...

As Aramis squinted to track the enemy behind cloudy sheets of rain and forced the tired muscles inside his wounded arm to obey his commands, he realized the odds did not stand in his favor.

Pursing his lips, he exhaled slowly; his anxieties carried into the storm on a breath of air and freeing his mind of the burdens that might impede his aim.

Seventy yards...

The moment he squeezed the trigger, the mechanism engaged to pull the burning cord onto the pan of gunpowder, igniting the charge with a firework of sparks and a familiar, ear deafening bang.

The ball raced toward its designated target as fast as the recoil of the weapon raced through Aramis' bones, setting his nerve endings alight. Stifling a groan, he watched as the shot pierced the chest of the man that had given the order to charge, hoping to cut down the leader of the troupe.

The impact of the shot propelled the rider from his saddle, startling several horses and causing them to rear in panic.

The rest kept on coming.

Sixty yards.

"Did you get him?" Treville asked as he handed over the second musket in exchange for the first.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Aramis countered, a smile playing on his lips when the captain's answering scoff reached his ears. Back in position, Aramis sighted his weapon quickly and squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

Powerful vibrations thrummed painfully through him as he called out in agony. Stronger winds adjusted the trajectory of his shot and the ball tore into his victim's throat instead of the chest he had aimed for.

The resulting blood spatter offered a gruesome sight and Aramis counted himself lucky he hadn't missed. As the impact pitched the rider from his horse, his foot tangled in the stirrup and caused the animal beneath him to careen backward, crashing onto the ground with a terrified whinny.

Flailing legs tripped two other riders to either side of the fallen horse, shouts of surprise permeating the air as men and beasts hurtled toward the waterlogged soil.

Aramis smiled. Three for the price of one.

Fifty yards...

As chaos ensued outside, he once again traded his spent musket for the one Treville had reloaded.

Retaking his aim, Aramis' vision suddenly slipped, colors blurring in front of him like blotches of wet paint. Shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut for one moment, he hoped to restore his tilting sight.

"Aramis?" Treville's voice slowly trickled through the cobwebs clouding his mind. Surprised to feel the grounding weight of the captain's hand on his shoulder, Aramis wondered when the other man had joined him on top of the crate.

Forcing his lids to open, Aramis exhaled with relief when he realized his vision had steadied but regretted the fact that several moments had slipped past unnoticed.

Thirty yards... Damn.

When a glint of metal flashed in his peripheral vision, Aramis whipped his head to the side.

Treville's arm extended through the window with his arquebus aimed at the furious crowd. As the captain fired his weapon, the ball sliced through the rain, chasing its target with deadly accuracy. With an agonized scream traveling on high winds, Treville's victim dropped to the ground in a splash of blood and dirt.

Finally within range to do so, the enemy sought retribution for their continued slaughter, collectively drawing pistols and arquebus' to execute their vengeance. At least a dozen lead balls raced for the window, riding on the cacophony of gunfire. Pressing their bodies against the wall on opposite sides of the opening, Treville and Aramis waited for the volley to hit.

When the hail of lead bit into brick and stone, the wall at their backs vibrated with the impact, sending a shiver through Aramis' spine.

As predicted, the narrow window proved to be a reliable defense as only one of the balls found its way inside, zipping past between them to dig a hole into the far wall of the chapel.

When the vibrations of gunfire against rock ebbed away and finally ceased completely, Aramis hurried to sight his musket, eager to reciprocate and recover lost time.

"Are you good?" Treville called as Aramis squeezed the trigger.

Gritting his teeth against the now familiar brand of agony caused by the recoil of his weapon, Aramis found comfort in the fact that his aim remained true. "Much better now," he muttered as his latest casualty twisted with the impact of a lead ball in his chest before plummeting off his horse.

Twenty yards.

Stepping to the edge of the crate, Aramis allowed Treville room to properly aim his second arquebus. Keeping his view out the window, Aramis surveyed the carnage below.

Blood pooled with water where the dead had fallen and shouts of anger reached his ears as riderless horses completed the picture of chaos. Forcing their enemies to further cope with this unexpectedly fierce resistance, Treville fired his next shot, the thunder of its discharge competing with the stormy heavens above.

Any second now.

When the captain's marksmanship claimed yet another life, Aramis witnessed one of the remaining riders pull at his reins. With water dripping from the rider's beard and sloshing from the brim of his hat, the man's features darkened with barely contained fury as he twisted in his saddle to fully survey the turmoil surrounding him.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

Aramis recognized the tone of authority in the voice that thundered across the field and realized with regret that the leader of the group still lived.

As the command penetrated the incessant drum of rain, and horses skidded on muddy ground as their riders scrambled to follow orders, regret gave way to relief as Aramis admitted to himself that he would not have been able to keep this up much longer.

He watched as the remaining number of enemies retreated toward the hillside.

As the rush of battle started to abandon Aramis, he used the support of the wall to slide down and claim a seat on the crate before his knees failed him.

"Only for a moment," Aramis muttered for Treville's benefit as much as his own, while reminding himself that danger continued to loom.

"It's alright," Treville assured, keeping his place at the window. "Rest while you can. I'll keep watch."

Resting his left elbow on a bent knee, Aramis drove his fingers through his wet curls, willing the razor blades slicing the muscles and nerves of his injured arm to cease their torment, and perhaps even grant him a moment of peace. But as the blades cut deeper instead, hacking away at his defenses, Aramis failed to override the urge to state the obvious.

"They'll be back," he said, allowing his head to fall against the wall behind him. "After nightfall. When we can't track their approach."

"I'm sure," replied Treville. "But for now, try and relax. Conserve your energy."

Closing his eyes, Aramis attempted to follow the command by focusing on measured breaths with the hopes of calming his persistently racing heart.

But when distorted images and conversations of the past two days flitted through his mind's eye, he realized that peace would not come. Not before he exposed the shadow that lurked in the corner of his mind and named the devil that had been ruling his thoughts since...

Aramis forced his eyes to open. "I thought about what you said in your office," he started as he raised his head off the wall to watch Treville's reaction. "You thought Richelieu was playing one of his games. Do you believe him bold enough to orchestrate this manhunt?"

At the question, Treville's head snapped to the side, his gaze colliding with Aramis'. The captain's eyes widened as disbelief warred with better judgment before he finally nodded his head as if considering the possibility.

"You and I know better than most," Treville acknowledged. "There has never been an act despicable enough to cause him to waver in his pursuits as long as his twisted mind can conjure a reason to justify his atrocities."

"Indeed," Aramis agreed, allowing exhaustion to pull his lids shut as the truth of Treville's statement proved too painful to ponder.

TBC  
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There. Milady provides a little plot twist. Anyone see that coming? :D


	5. Chapter 5

A big thank you to everyone who continues to follow and review this story! It's always nice to know you enjoy the tale :)

Also, a huge thank you to DeadshotMusketeer for her contributions and additions, patience and support :)

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 5

Wednesday, mid-day

Roughly an hour had passed since the initial attack on the chapel; time slipping through Treville's fingers like grains of sand as the helplessness of being trapped with an injured man weighed heavily on his spirit.

From his place by the window, Treville watched the heavens above close their gates to the earth below, ceasing the rainfall which had been blanketing the ground and their view. As the storm receded, the remaining winds dispersed the clouds to allow the occasional ray of sunlight to ease the misery of this day.

Glancing at Aramis seated on the crate next to him, Treville studied the lines of pain that marked the man's features and refused to relinquish their hold even in sleep. Smudged charcoal discolored the area beneath closed eyes, reminding Treville of smeared ink on wet parchment.

As Aramis' chest labored for air, Treville's gut clenched with the knowledge that the marksman's condition would continue to deteriorate until such time he received proper care for his wounds.

Dragging his eyes away from his soldier's worrying form, Treville returned his attention to the hillside, where the remaining twenty men had settled down. Tending the wounded and talking amongst themselves, the group seemed to be biding their time, waiting to strike at the right moment.

With the enemy outside of firing range but close enough to remind Treville that escape was an impossibility, the church walls closed in around him, fueling his anxiety and suffocating his patience.

As the sanctuary they occupied threatened to turn into a tomb, Treville, desperate to reclaim his inner peace, drew breath until his lungs refused to expand any further.

As he continued to survey the scene outside, Treville watched one man mount his horse, recognizing him as the leader of the troupe by his full beard and the wide brim of his hat. Before the rider urged his horse forward, he attached a white piece of fabric to the barrel of his musket.

Alone, the leader descended the slope, approaching the chapel at a steady walk with his makeshift flag of truce twisting in the wind like a flying serpent, signaling the request to open dialogue.

Suspicion crept into Treville's heart. He narrowed his eyes, all senses alert as his experience commanded caution.

After judging the distance the man had yet to travel, Treville crouched down to bring his head level with Aramis.

Resting his hand on the marksman's thigh, Treville hoped to ease his soldier's transition into the light of day. "Aramis?" he hissed, keeping his voice low yet allowing his urgency to bleed through.

As Aramis' head snapped forward, his features told a tale of confusion when consciousness struck. Treville used his free hand to cup the man's cheek, guiding Aramis' head to the side until their eyes met.

"Easy son," Treville implored with affection born from tragedy. His protectiveness of the younger man always proved strongest during times of uncertainty, as it had ever since his actions inadvertently contributed to the worst day of Aramis' life.

Aware that a physical connection rarely failed to ground the younger musketeer, Treville massaged the taut muscles in the back of the marksman's neck and watched with relief as the fog of confusion vacated Aramis' gaze.

Signaling with a nod that his focus was restored, Aramis' forehead lifted in question.

"We've got company," Treville explained, tilting his head toward the window. "One man, carrying a white flag."

Aramis' answering frown cast a shadow over his features.

"My thoughts exactly," replied Treville, agreeing with his soldier's unspoken misgivings. Grasping Aramis' left forearm, Treville helped him gain his footing.

When the marksman's knees locked beneath him, he grappled for the ledge of the window to fight the obvious case of vertigo that threatened to destroy his balance.

Keeping his hands on Aramis' shoulders to ensure gravity would not win this battle of wills, Treville peeked outside to gauge the distance of their unexpected guest.

The rider tugged on his reins, halting his horse twenty yards from the chapel.

"I'm good," Aramis assured, his voice scratching like sandpaper on rough wood.

Treville relinquished his supporting hold on Aramis, hovering for a moment to ensure his soldier's balance. While Aramis' face reminded him of a snowy landscape, and his eyes carried the glimmer of pain, his tenacity seemed to prevail against the detrimental effects of his injuries.

"I came to speak with the Musketeer Captain."

The words rumbled through the opening in the wall to echo against brick and stone.

"I will listen," Treville returned, gifting the man outside with his undivided attention. "As soon as you state your name and purpose."

"My name is Edmond Lazare," the rider drawled, lack of conviction tainting his voice. "I don't have all day, and you are proving to be more resilient than I first anticipated, so I propose a trade."

"My heart bleeds for you," stated Treville, his sarcasm eliciting a chuckle from Aramis.

Lazare rolled his eyes. "Do not concern yourself. The matter will be rectified soon enough."

Treville's patience waned. "What is it you want?"

"If you surrender yourself, I will let the other one go. My orders extend to you alone."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Treville saw Aramis' muscles turn rigid.

"What makes you believe I would consider this?" Treville asked, attempting to conceal the unease curling his stomach into knots.

"Come now, Captain," baited Lazare, a smirk splitting his bearded face. "I know your man is injured and won't be able to help you defend this chapel indefinitely. Once his aim fails, it will be but a matter of time before we gain access to your little hideout."

Treville remained silent, unable to counter as the truth tied his tongue.

"In honor of the Musketeer motto," the enemy continued, "I thought I would give you the chance to save your brother before it's too late."

As Lazare's voice drilled into Treville's tired mind, the captain found himself considering the offer in a moment of indecision. If Lazare keeps his word and Aramis lives on, my death may not be in vain.

"All for one, Captain," his opponent mocked. "What is it going to be?"

A loud crack beside Treville's head startled him from his thoughts.

The ball from Aramis' arquebus whizzed past Treville to carve a furrow into Lazare's cheek, sending both man and flag onto the ground where the banner of peace was trampled into the mud by anxious hooves.

Lazare growled in anger while he shuffled to his feet, lifting his hand to cover the bleeding gash.

Treville turned wide eyes to his left to witness Aramis lower his weapon.

"Consider this your answer," called Aramis, his authority masking the pain Treville knew the man to bear. "The next time you come within firing range, I will have your head. White flag or not."

As he stared at the stains on his glove, Lazare's ire took command of his voice. "Is this your response, Captain?" he demanded.

Treville considered Aramis' decision and decided to honor the marksman's courage by following his lead. "You heard the man. We'll take our chances."

"If you insist on dying together," his opponent growled, "I'll be happy to oblige."

When Lazare's eyes darted to the side of the building, Treville's blood ran cold.

"Light 'em up, boys!"

Cursing his lack of foresight, Treville spun to his right as two bottles crashed through the side window.

Rigged with flaming cloths, the breakable containers raced toward the ground, exploding into balls of fire when both flame and alcohol ignited upon impact.

"The crates!" Aramis shouted, pushing away from the wall.

Fiery tongues from the explosion already licked at the first of three boxes stored along the far side of the chapel, feeding on the dry wood with the appetite of a starving animal. As the orange creature flared and snarled, the enclosed space of the chapel threatened to turn into a flaming tomb.

Aramis stepped forward, his eyes alight with purpose as he fixated on his target. "The other crates must not catch fire or we will die in here!"

"No!" commanded Treville, halting the marksman by placing his hand across his chest. "That is my task. I need you to stay by the window and shoot anyone who approaches that door!"

Despite the order, Aramis' gaze remained fixed to the fire and his clenched jaw revealed his readiness to enter hell itself.

With Aramis' injuries in mind, Treville refused to argue the point and acted before Aramis could. He jumped off the crate, and rushed toward the blaze as flames and sparks grappled for the second crate with burning arms.

Ignoring the sting of sweat falling into his eyes, Treville angled his face away from the bite of the fire. Reaching into the mouth of the beast, he took hold of the crackling wood with both hands. With a hammering heart, Treville dragged the burning contraption toward the middle of the chapel where it would be deprived of further kindling.

The smoke poisoning the air seized his airway with an iron fist while the heat of the fire attempted to melt his gloves and feed on his flesh. Refusing to give in, Treville readjusted his grip on the crate. Yanking the burning container one step further, his injured shoulder popped with the effort as his joint once again pulled out of its socket.

Stumbling backward to escape the reaching fingers of the flames, Treville clutched at his wounded arm as angry nerve endings coiled into a throbbing ball of agony. With pain and exhaustion waging war on his system, it proved impossible to smother his grunt of pain.

When the sound of his misery caught in his throat, a violent cough ripped from his chest. Unable to withstand any more punishment, Treville's body surrendered to the pull of gravity, his knees finally hitting the ground when he could stand no more.

Battling for breath, Treville curled in on himself as the discharge of Aramis' arquebus tore past the edge of his awareness, alerting him to the marksman's continued fight for their survival.

"Captain?" Aramis demanded from his place by the window, the concern in his voice penetrating the black acrid fog of their surroundings.

For both their sakes, Treville needed to ensure Aramis remained focused on his task. "I'm fine," he called, forcing the words through a stinging throat. "Hold your position!"

Pushing against the stone floor, Treville urged his body to comply and straightened his spine in an attempt to alleviate Aramis' worry. When he looked up, a glint of sunlight caused him to squint his eyes.

Tracking the golden ray through the blanket of smoky clouds to its origin, Treville located another window high above Aramis' head, just beneath the rafters of the chapel's roof.

The dire need to ventilate the small space before they choked on the mass of smoke fueled Treville's determination and strengthened his resolve. Ignoring his body's protests, he staggered to his feet.

Gritting his teeth against the pulsating ache eating at his useless shoulder, Treville used his right hand to free his pistol. "Cover your head," he shouted, rubbing sweat and grit from his eyes before raising his arm to aim for the window.

Blinking to control his wavering sight, Treville pulled the trigger. Riding on fiery sparks, the ball cut through the barricade of smoke in its path and sped toward the pane of glass.

The lead ball drilled through its target, shattering the window into shards. Fragments of glass rained down from above, reflecting rays of sun on their way to the earth. The newly created opening in the wall would vent the smoke into the air outside as the crate slowly burned to ashes.

"Good thinking," Aramis rasped, then cleared his throat to suppress a cough.

Treville shuffled toward the wall next to the door. "What's happening out there?" he asked, mentally preparing himself for his next course of action.

Bracing his right hand against the brick wall, Treville angled the left half of his body backward, his disjointed arm following the pull of gravity.

"A few of Lazare's men set the fire. They must have circled the chapel to sneak up on the side window," Aramis explained as he readjusted the aim of his arquebus. "I killed one and there is another trying to flee."

"I'm sure he's about to discover he can't outrun a musket ball," Treville muttered, jerking his body forward to snap his wayward joint back into its socket. When he felt his shoulder slide back into place, and the searing needles inside his arm subsided, he knew he had succeeded in accomplishing his task.

As Aramis squeezed the trigger and his shot fired with a bang, the answering howl of a dying man wafted through the window, confirming the precision of Aramis' aim.

"Got him!" the marksman exclaimed as the echo of his rifle's discharge punctuated his words.

Cradling his left arm to his body, Treville stepped closer to the window. "What of Lazare?" he asked, bracing his right hand on the crate to jump up and stand next to his soldier.

"As soon as the commotion started, he retreated halfway up the slope to wait for the rest of his men," Aramis explained. "There was too much going on. I missed the chance to shoot him."

Directing his gaze through the window, Treville surveyed the scene below. Lazare remained seated on his horse, waiting for his contingent to join him at the halfway point between the chapel and the top of the ridge; fifty yards from Aramis' and Treville's position.

Given a small reprieve, Treville reflected on the course of the attack. "Why didn't they attack sooner?" he asked, watching Lazare's men draw closer to their leader's position.

"He's arrogant," stated Aramis. "He must have ordered his men to remain on the hill to support his farce of discussing a truce. Lazare probably thought the flames would prevent us from mounting further resistance, thus gaining him easy access to the chapel."

A smile tugged at Treville's lips as he grasped Aramis' shoulder. "He was mistaken."

"I believe he's trying to rectify that mistake," Aramis noted, his eyes following the rider's progress.

Striking a piece of flint against his short blade to prime his musket, the marksman used the windowsill to line up his shot and muttered under his breath, "Under different circumstances, I could put a hole through his chest at fifty yards."

The dejection in Aramis' smoke-tortured voice prompted Treville to snap his head sideways and scrutinize the man's condition.

Wet curls were matted to Aramis' ivory-tinged skin by sweat and dirt. A wheezing chest battled the smoke that had penetrated Aramis' lungs while broken blood vessels formed spider webs in the whites of his eyes. Tracking the length of Aramis' arm, Treville found that the combined effects of the day's trials had finally taken their toll when he witnessed an unrelenting tremor take control of Aramis' injured limb.

The reality of the situation stung as it slapped Treville in the face. "You can't make the shot," he said.

"Most likely not," replied Aramis. "Right now, at this distance? My aim would prove… questionable at best."

Cringing at the marksman's honesty, Treville refused to ponder the level of pain such a response must have required.

Contemplating their options, Treville realized the residual numbness inside his own shoulder suggested that his marksmanship would fail to prove more accurate than Aramis'.

"Any ideas?" Treville asked, loath to accept they had reached the end of their rope.

"Just one," replied Aramis, his breath fueling the burning ember of the matchcord. "Lazare!" he shouted, stretching the capacity of his weakened lungs. "Command your men to fall back or I will drop you where you stand! On the count of three."

A single heartbeat elapsed before Treville's eyes widened with realization.

"One!" Aramis shouted.

"This is your plan?" Treville hissed in disbelief. "You're bluffing?"

"If Lazare values his life more than the outcome of this mission," Aramis returned, "then it might work." Glancing sideways, the marksman locked his gaze to Treville's, the stubborn glow of red-rimmed eyes reminding Treville that perseverance should not falter in the face of overwhelming odds.

"Besides," Aramis continued, returning his attention to the proceedings beyond the window. "As far as Lazare knows, I haven't yet missed a shot."

In lieu of a better alternative, Treville tilted his head in acquiescence and directed his focus back outside when the enemy's voice dominated the space between them.

"If you kill me, my men will tear you apart!"

Lazare shifted in his saddle, his eyes wide as he stared at the barrel of Aramis' musket.

"Then I shall die with the knowledge that you are rotting in hell!" growled Aramis, his venomous voice promising misery and death to anyone who dared to defy him.

Treville wasn't surprised by his soldier's intensity. He had learned a long time ago how much punishment Aramis could endure before reaching his breaking point. Still, the captain marveled at the fact the marksman's performance revealed no trace of the pain that had threatened to see his body fail earlier.

Aramis adjusted his stance. "Two!"

A roar of frustration ripped from Lazare's chest, releasing the fury that tightened his features, casting them into shadow with knitted brows.

Treville felt as though the world stopped breathing as their fate hung in the balance.

Lazare's lips curled into a snarl of anger to form a single word. "Retreat!"

"Unbelievable," Treville whispered as the entire contingent of Lazare's men pulled back on their reins. Twenty horses skidded to a stop before changing direction to carry their riders back to the ridgeline.

Lifting his chin, Lazare bared his teeth. "This is not over!" he promised, before turning to join in his men's retreat.

Aramis pushed away from the window to lower his musket as they stared at Lazare's retreating form.

"It actually... worked," the marksman mumbled, his words slurring as he lost his balance. Aramis staggered along the edge of the crate, throwing his arm forward to grapple for purchase.

"Don't!" Treville called, reaching out to fist his hand into the marksman's doublet and hauling his soldier away from the brink.

Aramis' buckling legs complicated Treville's effort. "Steady now," he cautioned in a hushed tone, wrapping his arms around Aramis' midsection to guide him to the wooden surface. "We didn't come this far for you to fall off a crate and break your neck."

The humorless chuckle that escaped Aramis' throat was swallowed by a cough. "That would hardly be the heroic death I envisioned for myself," he rasped, slumping against the wall behind him.

While Treville's lips curled into a smile, a heavy blanket of regret wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing his heart as a reminder of the fate that awaited them.

Even if Lazare waited until nightfall to strike again, Treville feared Aramis' body would begin to shut down if it was deprived of water much longer. Flushed cheeks now stained the white canvas of Aramis' skin, displaying the first symptoms of a fever as the marksman's body battled trauma as well as stress and fatigue.

Or perhaps the onset of infection.

After glancing through the window to confirm Lazare and his troupe were keeping their distance, Treville acknowledged his own weariness and lowered himself to sit next to Aramis.

"How is your shoulder?" Aramis asked, his eyes fixated on the burned out ruins of the crate before them.

Cradling his arm against his chest, Treville attempted to ignore the lingering pain. "Attached," he replied, following Aramis' line of sight to witness the last of the flames die down as only a carcass of ash and embers remained.

Aramis nodded. "The connection between joint and socket is weakened. It will prove easy to dislocate again for some time."

"I've noticed."

When the marksman remained silent for too long, Treville turned his head, wincing in sympathy when he found Aramis' eyes pinched shut and his breath firing in short bursts.

Treville's hand came to rest on his soldier's thigh without conscious thought. "You fought well today," he said, seeking to comfort, to distract. "It was good to see your focus restored."

Aramis' eyes snapped open, his searching gaze battling against his ailments to focus on the meaning of Treville's comment. "What do you mean?"

"Come now, Aramis," goaded Treville. "You've been preoccupied for weeks. Your afflictions of the heart are rarely a secret."

When the marksman's eyes flickered with alarm, Treville frowned and hurried to backtrack. "I don't know the nature of your burden, and I'm not about to pry," he assured. "I was merely hoping you had found a solution for your problem."

As Aramis considered the words, his posture relaxed as a shaky exhale released his tension. "I am starting to," he said, bloodshot eyes glistening with tears of exhaustion. "But it might not matter. When Lazare strikes for the third time, we have no hope of fending them off."

Treville nodded slowly. "I am aware."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

A big thank you to everyone who continues to read and review this story! And a special thank you to my guest reviewers I can't reply to personally.

As always, a huge thank you to Deadshot Musketeer for finding my mistakes :)

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.  
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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 6

Wednesday, mid-day

Porthos led his horse between the sweeping dress of a pine tree and the moss-covered bark of a large oak. Like stoic guardians, the trees sheltered the clearing ahead that would hopefully shed light on the fate of their brothers.

"This is it," he declared, ducking his head to avoid a branch in his path as he entered the small space.

The concern that kept him awake the night prior had sharpened its claws since the discovery of Milady's note, scratching past his defenses to take a foothold inside his heart.

Pulling to a stop in front of a mound of ashes, Porthos slid off his horse and regarded the cold husks and skeleton branches of an old campfire.

Crouching down, he fisted his hand into a pile of blue fabric. He swallowed the lump in his throat when he realized what it was; the remnants of a cloak that matched his own. Tilting his head back to stare at the gathering masses of clouds, Porthos expanded his lungs to fight against the emotion threatening to betray his fears.

As his mind drifted back to a past mission and this same clearing, he remembered Aramis' fascination with the perfect view of the night sky. "I knew he'd pick this spot to spend the night," Porthos muttered as his lips thinned into a smile.

The crunch of leaves behind him announced Athos' approach. "Yes," his friend remarked with a bare hint of amusement. "Your understanding of the inner workings of Aramis' mind is truly astounding."

Porthos scoffed; the sound more derisive than he had meant it to be. "Don't know 'bout that," he returned, pushing to his feet to pin Athos with a fiery stare. "Something's been weighin' on his mind but I'm not the one he confided in." Surprised by the sudden surge of temper threatening to constrict his throat, Porthos swallowed rapidly, hoping not to choke on his ire.

But as stress and uncertainty played tug of war with his insides, Porthos was forced to acknowledge the reason for his sudden outburst.

The level of Aramis' distraction in recent days could be described as negligent and remissive of duty. Porthos had noted the fleeting shadows of harrowing demons hovering behind the marksman's eyes, had seen them shatter his friend's focus, affecting his aim and skill in combat.

Porthos was aware of the invisible cross Aramis seemed to bear, and in hindsight, Porthos berated himself for choosing to do nothing.

As subtle looks and hushed words between Porthos' two oldest friends had served as proof that Athos was privy to Aramis' plight, Porthos opted to remain silent, respecting his friend's privacy and trusting that Aramis would confide in him when he was ready.

Only now that Aramis' continued survival would depend in large part on his skill and precision in battle, the lack of information regarding his friend's state of mind crippled Porthos' efforts to stay positive.

Porthos' jaw locked with determination as he prepared to learn the truth by any means.

As a staring match evoked a battle of wills, his lieutenant's eyes revealed nothing but a frozen sea of blue without any ripple of emotion. Porthos knew it wasn't indifference he was witnessing but rather the unfortunate product of past tragedy and heartbreak that enabled Athos to bury his feelings with frightening efficiency.

Before Porthos could open his mouth to challenge Athos' resolve, a whistle diverted his focus, causing his head to whip to the side.

"Over here," d'Artagnan called, his voice clipped with urgency.

Porthos' eyes swept the area, spotting only the Gascon's black shock of hair as the younger man crouched behind a cluster of shrubs.

Matching Athos' stride, Porthos marched across the clearing, shutting his mind against the gruesome possibilities that might await him.

Butterflies swarmed Porthos' gut as he rounded the shrubbery to find d'Artagnan bent over one of two bodies on the ground, his hands searching the dead man's pockets.

"It's not them," Porthos breathed as he processed the images of black leather and unfamiliar features. The corpses revealed sunken eyes that had turned into glass hours ago, mirroring the gathering tide of stone-gray clouds above.

Relief washed through Porthos in a dizzying wave, arresting all conscious thought. Black spots clouded his field of vision as the panic poisoning his heart slowly ebbed away.

"I can't find any distinguishing marks," d'Artagnan stated, "but I'd wager these men belonged to the contingent sent to kill the Captain."

"I believe that is a fair assumption," Athos agreed, crouching in front of the bodies. The lieutenant's hand came to rest on the rug of leaves before tracing a set of track marks with his fingers. "They did not die here," Athos established, tilting his head in curiosity.

Porthos cleared his throat to hide the anxiety in his voice. "The bodies were dragged into the shrubs after they were shot," he surmised, following the grooves in the dirt leading back to the clearing on the other side of the bushes. Dropping to one knee, Porthos traced a disturbance on the ground with his hand. "This is where they fell."

D'Artagnan moved passed him with determined strides, his brows knitted together in concentration. "The shots would have been fired from over here," the Gascon muttered, his eyes roaming the dirt further ahead in an attempt to read the truth written on leaves and needles.

"Two men entered the clearing on this side," d'Artagnan deduced. "The frayed impressions left by their boots suggest they moved quickly." The younger man tilted his head before crouching down to study the signs on the forest floor. "Both of them hit the ground right here," he said as gloved fingers outlined a mass of scrunched leaves.

Porthos pushed to his feet, drawn by d'Artagnan's ability to read the clues left for them to find. His heart jumped when the younger musketeer touched a dark stain on the ground and rubbed his fingers together before lifting them to his nose. "Blood," stated d'Artagnan.

An iron fist seized Porthos' insides at the discovery, urging him to search the immediate vicinity for better news. "Ey," he exclaimed, raising his finger to indicate the hedge next to d'Artagnan. "What's this?"

Following Porthos' line of sight, the Gascon reached into the underbrush and grabbed hold of a leather object.

D'Artagnan's features darkened with a scowl. "It's Aramis' hat," he stated, brushing the dirt off the brim as if salvaging the garment would summon its owner.

Porthos locked his gaze to the mangled piece of leather and fought to arrange his jumbled thoughts, desperate to know that his friend still lived. "What the hell 'appened here?"

A gloved hand grasped his shoulder as Athos came to stand next to him. "They were ambushed," the lieutenant reasoned. "And shots were exchanged."

Porthos pointed at the patch of blood on the ground while willing his heart to cease its violent stutter. "At least one of 'em is injured."

"Yes," Athos agreed. "But more importantly, they left this place alive."

Indicating another set of boot prints, the lieutenant drew attention to the tracks leading away from the blood stains to where they mingled with a cluster of hoof marks. "They managed to reach their horses and flee into the forest."

Athos' gaze suddenly softened as if he was privy to Porthos' innermost doubts. "We will find them."

"I know we'll find 'em," Porthos snapped, a fire burning inside his chest. "The question is, whether or not they'll be alive."

Athos' brows knitted together. "They are seasoned soldiers, Porthos. Why do you discount their skills so readily?"

"I wouldn't." Porthos found himself unable to suppress a huff of indignation. "Except these days, Aramis can't focus long enough to count to three. And you..." He jabbed a finger in Athos' direction as fear once again strangled his heart. "Need to tell me why!"

"I will do no such thing."

Porthos growled. "Are you denyin' you know what's goin' on with him?"

"No," replied Athos, squaring his shoulders as if readying himself for a fight. "I simply cannot tell you. It is not my place."

As the stormy conditions inside his heart overrode all logic, Porthos advanced on his lieutenant, intent on unleashing the full force of his temper.

He stopped short when he felt the restricting weight of a hand pressed against his chest.

"That's enough, Porthos!" d'Artagnan shouted with a ferocity reminiscent of their first encounter with the young man. "Whatever Aramis' burden... it doesn't matter."

Porthos' eyes flashed with rage. "How can you say that?"

"Because," d'Artagnan implored. "Knowing the nature of Aramis' inner plight will not help us find them."

Porthos' chest heaved with the effort of suppressing his emotions.

"You will get the chance to talk to him once he's safe," his young friend persisted, increasing the pressure of his palm against Porthos' sternum. "Once they're both safe."

The truth of d'Artagnan's words slapped him hard, helping to calm the angry creature that roared and clawed inside his chest; a creature awakened by Athos' secrecy but brought to life by his own failure to aid his best friend when he needed him most.

"You're right," Porthos whispered as the fire fled his body, leaving him tired and spent.

D'Artagnan exhaled in relief. "Here," he offered, lifting Aramis' hat between them. "You should hold on to this. I'm sure he can't wait to see it returned to him."

Fighting a tightness in his throat, Porthos clutched the leather garment like a lifeline. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," replied d'Artagnan, a ghost of a smile lighting his features.

"We must move on," interrupted Athos.

An uncomfortable sting of shame colored Porthos' cheeks. "I'm sorry," he muttered, sure to meet Athos' gaze. "I had no right..."

"Because I understand how you feel," Athos started, reaching up to cup the back of Porthos' neck. "It is forgiven, my friend."

Searching his lieutenant's eyes, Porthos flooded with relief when he found absolution in their depths.

"Where would they go?" asked d'Artagnan, his voice betraying his need to take action. "If one of them is injured and they know they are being pursued, they wouldn't attempt to ride for Paris."

"No, they wouldn't," Athos concurred, taking a step back. "Neither can they continue on to the Chateau. They would have to suspect the mission was compromised."

As Porthos' disjointed thoughts formed patterns once more, the answer stared at him with staggering clarity.

"The Chapel Saint Blaise," he called out with conviction. "Near Milly-la-Foret. We spent a night there on a previous mission. If Paris is too far and the path to the Chateau is too treacherous, then 'at's where they went. It's the closest structure that would offer the shelter they need."

Athos met his gaze, challenging his belief. "Are you certain?" the lieutenant asked. "Their lives might be forfeit if you're mistaken."

Porthos squared his shoulders, hoping to convey the confidence that had settled into his heart. "I'm not wrong, Athos," he assured. "He's there. I can feel it."

Athos' stare drilled into his soul, seemingly desperate to achieve the same clarity.

"Alright," the swordsman conceded at last. "Then we ride for Saint Blaise."

§§§

Wednesday afternoon

Fragments of sound penetrated the realm of twilight Aramis had called home for the past hours, skirting along the edge of awareness on which he traveled and scratching a sensitive nerve in the recess of his mind.

It was Lazare's voice.

Fire ants skittered across Aramis' skin at the vile sound, but in his weakened state, he was helpless to fight its vexing pull.

The meaning of the words spoken remained mysterious and obtuse as they failed to fully penetrate the cobwebs in Aramis' mind. But his ascent to consciousness escalated when the pain derived from the sum of his injuries dragged him ever closer to the surface, shattering any remaining barriers until finally, he opened heavy-lidded eyes.

The wound in Aramis' arm and the gash along his ribs throbbed in tandem, attempting to surpass the stuttering beat of his heart as they battled for his attention. The liquid fire coursing through his veins now extended across his entire frame, heating his skin as his body fought either the onset of infection or protested the compounded stress that had been inflicted on his person.

Unfortunately, he possessed neither the energy nor the supplies to aid any of his ailments.

When reflex caused him to swallow against the dust coating his mouth, Aramis flinched at the sensation of gravel sliding down his throat, shredding sensitive tissue.

As a cough ripped from his chest, constricting his airway and fueling his pounding headache, he dimly realized that his body stood on the verge of surrender. If he wouldn't soon be granted the relief of water, he would lose the battle against the forces that worked to see him fail.

The voice echoed once more, dark and threatening, its purpose dancing in the back of Aramis' mind like elusive shadows. Blinking against smoke-induced grit, he fought to clear both his thoughts and vision.

Tilting his head back to look up, Aramis found the blurry outline of Treville at the window. The captain's knitted brow cast dark shadows across his features which toyed with Aramis' wavering sight.

"No," the older man breathed in disbelief. "How is this possible?"

Aramis' heart jumped as the horror in Treville's voice sent a shiver down his spine, reviving his tired muscles sufficiently to push away from the wall.

"Captain?" he called, rubbing his eyes until he succeeded in steadying his tilting view of the world.

When Treville remained silent with his stare transfixed to the scene outside, Aramis gritted his teeth and grappled for the support of the wall as he staggered to his feet.

Grasping at the windowsill, Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against the dizzy spell threatening to undo his efforts.

Working to slow his breathing, Aramis filled his lungs, ignoring the sting of ash and smoke as the remainders of the fire continued to taint the air.

When the world righted itself in his mind's eye, he dared to open his lids, desperate to learn the reason for Treville's unease.

As he looked out the window, Aramis' gut clenched and his heart threatened to jump out of his chest.

Porthos.

It couldn't be.

Unless Aramis' eyes deceived him, his best friend was kneeling in front of Lazare, the barrel of a pistol pressed against his temple.

Mud and water soiled Porthos' breeches and armor, painting a picture of the recent trials he must have endured. A gash just beneath his hairline bled sluggishly, rivulets of red snaking their path into an eye and causing him to blink in reaction.

Aramis swallowed the nausea threatening to rise in his throat and searched the features of the man he knew better than himself. Porthos wore a mask of defiance, dark eyes exuding nothing but confidence even in the face of defeat.

When Lazare cocked the hammer of the pistol, the resulting click drove into Aramis' stomach like a punch to the gut. His breath left him in a rush of air.

Their enemy opened his mouth once more and this time the meaning of his words reverberated inside Aramis' skull with staggering clarity.

"This is your last chance," Lazare warned. "Surrender now or I will blow his head off!"

TBC  
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Dun dun dun...

Who's still with me? Would love to hear your thoughts :)


	7. Chapter 7

A big thank you to everyone who continues to read and review! Knowing that people enjoy the story makes all the difference:)

As always, a huge thank you to DeadshotMusketeer for her wonderful additions and support :)

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

................................................................................................................................................................................................

Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 7

Wednesday afternoon

Lazare's pistol smashed into the back of Porthos' head, snapping it forward as lightning danced across closed lids.

Determined to remain upright, Porthos' swayed and hissed. In the end, his weakened body failed to withstand the pull of gravity and his knees collided with the sodden earth below him in a splash of mud and water.

Without reprieve, Lazare wrenched Porthos' arms backward. Grunting and struggling against his captor's strength, Porthos' aching muscles pulled taut as his wrists were bound tightly.

But Porthos' resolve was set. He would suffer any pain or discomfort inflicted upon him as long as his plan succeeded.

Athos, d'Artagnan and himself had arrived at the edge of Fontainebleau Forest to discover a contingent of men nesting on top of a hill approximately five hundred yards out.

To Porthos, the presence of the troupe sufficiently proved his hunch correct; Aramis and Treville had indeed taken refuge inside the chapel situated in the valley beyond the ridge.

Porthos knew that directly engaging with twenty armed mercenaries would have been ill-advised, and reaching the brick building undetected would have been next to impossible.

A distraction was required, and Porthos jumped at the chance for action.

He allowed himself to be captured. When Lazare recognized the Musketeer insignia on Porthos' armor, his captor had whipped his pistol across Porthos' forehead. But as Porthos had foreseen, Lazare restrained his aggravations long enough to realize what Porthos represented.

Leverage.

This diversion, Porthos had hoped, would provide Athos and d'Artagnan with the opportunity to sneak around and take position behind the chapel.

But as blood currently obscured his vision and needles shredded the nerve endings behind his eyes, Porthos was beginning to realize the risks of his plan.

Remaining on his knees, Porthos straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, hoping his posture would advertise his refusal to admit defeat.

Directing his gaze toward the window situated above the entrance to the church, Porthos found that the narrow opening failed to reveal anything beyond a shadow of movement.

It was no matter. Porthos felt Aramis' presence as tangibly as the ground he knelt on, which helped appease the concern strangling his heart.

Porthos decided to focus on the relief surging through his system at knowing Aramis and Treville still lived rather than the shame twisting his insides.

He should neither have lost faith in Aramis' skill as a soldier nor questioned the marksman's ability to beat the odds. Regardless of any personal demons lurking in the shadows of Aramis' mind, Porthos should have known better than to disregard his friend's stubborn resolve in the face of danger.

As the barrel of the pistol dug into his skull and fueled his headache, Porthos refused to flinch, his trust in Athos and d'Artagnan granting him the luxury of peace even as his life hung in the balance.

Lazare primed the weapon with a flick of his thumb, the snap of the hammer preceding the man's voice as it thundered across the field. "This is your last chance," he shouted. "Surrender now or I will blow his head off!"

Drawing a lungful of air, the earthy wetness delivered by the storm filled Porthos' nose. Closing his eyes, he focused on the steady thump of his heart while he prepared himself for battle.

The direct threat to his life presented the call to arms Athos and d'Artagnan would be waiting for.

A lead ball hurtled from the corner of the building, riding on a clap of thunder to put an end to his captor's demands as it drilled into flesh and tore a scream from Lazare's throat.

Porthos' eyes snapped open in time to catch a glimpse of Athos. His lieutenant was emerging from the side of the chapel, discarding his spent pistol and drawing his rapier against a number of enemies.

As the pressure of metal against Porthos' temple disappeared, he reached into the shaft of his boot with bound hands, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife he kept hidden inside. Flipping the blade up with a twist of his wrist, he tore through his bindings and spun around on his knees, eager to confirm that Athos' shot had claimed Lazare's life.

There was no trace of his enemy.

Searching the space before him, Porthos found red stains on sodden earth providing the only evidence his captor had been there.

As he directed his gaze beyond the trail of blood, Porthos swallowed the urge to dwell on Lazare's disappearance as three of the man's associates advanced on his position while a short blade presented his only defense.

Flashing eyes and features of stone revealed lethal intent as the opponent to his right aimed his pistol at Porthos and fired.

Porthos leapt sideways and rolled over his shoulder to dodge the ball meant for his head. Pulling himself into a crouch, Porthos lifted his blade in time to catch the rapier racing to skewer his throat.

Grunting with the effort, Porthos pushed to his feet, forcing his adversary back with brute strength. The grating vibrations of steel hummed through his torso as he swiped his blade downward to redirect the trajectory of the other man's sword.

Drawing his arm back to gain momentum, Porthos thrust his blade forward, steel ripping through his opponent's gut with the force of his frustrations.

As he twisted the knife with a jerk of his wrist, Porthos witnessed the light in his victim's eyes surrender to the oblivion of death.

"Porthos!"

D'Artagnan's nearby shout reached him through the noise of battle as it surpassed the thrum of steel and traveled on the repercussions of musket fire. "Catch!"

Porthos' head whipped around in time to grasp the piece of steel flying toward him. As his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his schiavona, Porthos hummed in approval as he realized his pistol was tied to the blade with a strap of leather.

While he freed the firearm from his sword, Porthos spared d'Artagnan a quick glance and witnessed his young friend plunge his rapier into his opponent's midsection with unyielding force. Following up with a swift kick to the sternum, the Gascon forced his attacker to stagger backward, leaving devastating damage as his sword slid free from the body.

Nodding in satisfaction at the combined display of skill and ferocity, Porthos turned to find his next victim. His heart jumped when two men aimed their pistols at his chest.

As reflex governed his actions, Porthos' arm jerked upward, squeezing the trigger of his pistol with the knowledge he'd be unable to kill both assailants with a single shot.

The thunder of weapons combined into one deafening roar and Porthos closed his eyes, waiting for the pain that would signal the end of his life.

When the expected agony failed to register, he squinted at the scene before him. His forehead lifted in surprise as he stared at the bloodied remains of both of his adversaries.

Porthos' shot had torn into one victim's chest, but the other victim...

"What the hell..." he breathed.

He whipped around and settled his gaze on the shadows in the window of the chapel that concealed his friend.

"Aramis," he said quietly, dipping his head in gratitude.

Eager to reunite with his brother, Porthos twirled his sword and stepped forward to challenge anyone who dared to stand in his path.

§§§

Lazare clutched his shoulder as a shot tore through leather and flesh, his roar of pain announcing his misery and forcing him to drop the pistol that threatened Porthos' life.

"It's a diversion," Aramis muttered from his place by the window, his eyes tracking Athos' and d'Artagnan's movements as they emerged from either side of the chapel. As Aramis' friends charged at Lazare's men, urgency flared inside Aramis' chest, burning bright with concern for his brothers. "We must help them!"

Crouching down and bracing his right hand against the crate, Aramis hopped off.

His knees buckled the moment his feet slapped against the stone floor, for his body was ill-prepared to absorb the weight of the impact.

Grappling for purchase, Aramis grasped the edge of the crate to break his fall while searing needles tore at his wounds. One knee smacked into the ground and agitated a layer of soot and ash, provoking it to flutter up around him and sting his eyes and his throat.

As his vision flashed white, Aramis began to fade. His mind drifted into a realm of darkness while his resolve was shattered by the trials bestowed on him, his waning strength insufficient to pull himself back from the brink.

A hand on his shoulder anchored him to the present, interrupting his quiet exit and denying him the peace of oblivion he craved.

"Aramis?"

When a touch of leather cooled his heated cheek, Aramis fought the shadows of serenity trapping him and willed his lids open.

"I'm here," he said, his voice a scratchy whisper he barely recognized.

Treville nodded, his face close enough for Aramis to feel the warmth of his breath. "That's good," the captain encouraged, padding the marksman's cheek once more. "Because there is no rest for the weary."

Adjusting his hold, Treville hauled Aramis to his feet, supporting him with an iron grip. "At least not yet," the captain concluded, his voice carrying a note of regret.

Dipping his head in agreement, Aramis stepped back to test his balance and breathed a sigh of relief when his legs supported his weight. With his weakness confined to a slight tremble of his limbs, Aramis lifted his hand to indicate the door, unwilling to delay any longer. "They need us."

Grasping the edge of the crate that blocked the doorway, Treville pushed against it until he created just enough space for one man to squeeze through.

"I will go," the captain stated, taking the arquebus from the top of the crate and drawing his pistol.

"No. I -"

Treville seized Aramis with a stare, his eyes flashing with resolve. "You can hardly keep your feet," he argued. "It will help no one if you die out there."

The truth slapped Aramis like a physical punch, forcing him to concede the reality of his limitations with a rushed breath of air. And yet, he would rather die in defense of his brothers than do nothing. "Please, do not ask me to sit by while they risk their lives to save us."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Treville replied, his voice earnest. "I need you here."

Grabbing hold of one of the muskets, Treville pressed it against Aramis' chest. "I need you to do what you do best."

Aramis' hands closed around the weapon, his head falling to his chest unbidden while his breath hitched with fear of failure. "Right now," he stated with a strangled whisper, "you cannot trust my aim."

"And yet," Treville insisted, his lips twitching with a rare smile while his gaze exuded confidence. "There is no one else I'd rather have watching over us."

Before Aramis found the chance to respond, Treville had turned and pulled the door open, disappearing into the fray.

As Aramis stared at the empty doorway, he restrained the self-doubt gnawing at his heart, praying his captain's faith in his abilities wasn't misplaced.

Setting his jaw against the ever present fire burning inside his wounds and working to overtake his senses, Aramis lifted his gaze to the window.

His brothers needed him.

Holding on to that simple thought, he wiped the sweat from his fevered brow and somehow summoned the strength to climb on top of the crate to position his musket.

Striking flint against steel, the resulting sparks lit the matchcord. Aramis surveyed the situation outside, trying to find a pattern to the chaos before sighting his firearm.

Athos swung his arquebus like a club and cracked his opponent's skull before clashing swords with the next man in line, the musketeer's swordplay superior in every aspect. A path paved with dead bodies announced that no intervention was required as Athos pushed forward like a force of nature.

Shifting his focus, Aramis watched Porthos wrap his fingers around the sword and pistol d'Artagnan tossed toward him. Aramis' heart fluttered in his chest like the wing of a wounded bird when two opponents brandished their weapons simultaneously, trapping Porthos in their line of fire.

Blinking against sweat stinging his eyes and using the familiarity of his movements to calm his nerves, Aramis took aim. When Porthos raised his arm to fire, Aramis exhaled slowly, paused and squeezed the trigger with a prayer on his lips.

The familiar thunder of his musket forged a roaring bond with the clap of Porthos' pistol as both shots cut the air in search of their targets.

Relief simultaneously warred with agony as Aramis registered the blood spatter signifying his victim's death and the recoil of his weapon sliced through him.

Remembering to breathe, Aramis inhaled and lifted his head in time to catch Porthos' eyes, drawing strength from the connection. As always, his brother proved to be the anchor he needed when he found himself adrift; Porthos' solid presence providing enough comfort for Aramis to help him push onward.

That's why the temptation to confide in Porthos and part with the secret of his unborn child, had taken enormous effort to resist. Aramis longed to share the loss and hopelessness that had woven themselves into his heart and poisoned his soul. He longed to talk to his friend in the hopes of achieving one moment of peace.

But taking any salvation Porthos' support could provide would only add to the list of Aramis' sins. It would condemn his brother to carry the burden of his treasonous actions. And the repercussions of that scenario were as difficult to bear as the weight of his secrets combined.

Aramis' focus narrowed when Treville entered his line of sight. With a sideways swipe of his sword, the captain disarmed his opponent, pushing forward until the steel of his blade skewered his enemy's ribs.

Lazare's men lost ground, their numbers diminishing rapidly as the wrath of four seasoned Musketeers swept over them like the fires of hell.

Four Musketeers...

Aramis' heart leaped into his throat and his eyes snapped across the carnage outside when he realized he had lost track of d'Artagnan.

His young friend had battled in Porthos' vicinity earlier, his attacker having fallen victim to the bite of d'Artagnan's blade.

That was the last Aramis had seen of the younger man.

Locking his eyes on d'Artagnan's first victim, Aramis' gaze then followed a trail of bloodied bodies that led him to the edge of the battlefield. Aramis forced out a breath, hoping that the dead would tell him the tale of his friend's fate.

He tracked d'Artagnan's path of destruction as far as the narrow viewpoint of his window would allow, but by pressing his back against the wall next to the opening, Aramis successfully extended his line of sight.

His blood ran cold.

Beyond the corner of the chapel, thirty yards out at most, d'Artagnan was fighting for his life.

Clashing steel with three opponents, the Gascon struggled to match the flurry of strikes against him. D'Artagnan dropped to one knee, avoiding a blade as it split the air overhead. Pushing his arm forward, he buried his sword into his opponent's gut.

Another of d'Artagnan's adversaries thrust his short blade in the direction of the younger man's throat; a poisonous snake striking to deliver a fatal bite.

Throwing his arm up, d'Artagnan narrowly countered the knife with his gauche. Grating steel and a grunt of effort proclaimed his desire to change the trajectory of the weapon. Pushing to his feet, the young Musketeer forced his opponent back, ending the battle by smashing the hilt of his short blade into the man's face to rob him of his senses.

The third opponent pulled his pistol.

Aramis had taken aim with his arquebus, his arm extending through the window to run parallel along the wall of the chapel. But he could do no more than curse under his breath as his vision slipped and blurred like a puddle of muddy water.

Losing his target in a smear of light and color, Aramis' ears vibrated as the bang of a pistol cracked the air. The echo of the shot drove into Aramis' heart when d'Artagnan crashed to his knees.

"God no," Aramis breathed, panic threatening to devour his spirit in the face of the red stain smearing the blurry scene before him.

With a shake of his head, his eyes focused at last, replacing smudged images with the sharp contours of a merciless truth.

Without interference, d'Artagnan would not last another ten seconds.

While the Gascon remained on his knees and the growing circle of blood changing the color of his breeches would not immediately claim his life, the swordpoint shooting forward to pierce his chest surely would.

Squeezing his trigger finger on a shaky exhale, Aramis prayed that God would not punish his sins by allowing his shot to take the life of a brother.

When Aramis' shot struck true, d'Artagnan's opponent staggered with the impact of a foreign object in his gut. The man's blade hovered mid-air before preceding its owner to the ground.

Aramis huffed a breath of relief while he watched his young friend fall backward to sit on the ground and brace his hands in the dirt. D'Artagnan's wound to his thigh would soon require attention, but for the moment Aramis thanked his lucky stars his brother remained very much alive.

Reaching for his chest without conscious thought, Aramis' hand found the cross he wore around his neck, the one tangible object on this earth he would hate to live without. Tracing the intricate design with his thumb, the habitual action served to calm his thundering heart.

"Aramis, watch out!"

D'Artagnan's panicked shout startled Aramis to awareness. He hadn't realized his eyes had fallen shut with the weight of his exhaustion and cursed himself for his weakness.

While he blinked to clear his vision, the rusty hinges of the door creaked as it swung inward.

Driving on instinct alone, Aramis relinquished the grip on his arquebus to pull out his main gauche.

The moment he recognized Lazare entering his sanctuary, Aramis dove from the crate. Wielding his dagger in a downward arch, he aimed for the vulnerable tissue at the base of his enemy's neck.

As he crashed into Lazare, the man caught Aramis' blade with his own, wrenching his injured arm to the side and thwarting his assassination attempt.

The thrumming vibration of the impact and the fire inside his limb stole Aramis' breath, driving him to his knees.

Before Aramis found the chance to recover his senses, the hilt of Lazare's main gauche smashed into his face. Falling backward to land on his rear, stars exploded in Aramis' field of vision.

Forcing his lids to open, Aramis blinked back the trickle of blood stinging his eye. Bracing his hands against the ground to keep from collapsing completely, Aramis looked up to see the cold depths of fury in his opponent's gaze.

As Lazare approached Aramis' position, an angry snarl split his nemesis' bearded face.

"Goddamn Musketeer!" shouted Lazare, drawing his leg back.

Lazare's boot swung forward, thrusting into Aramis' midsection with the power of a canon. Aramis felt ribs crack as he crashed into the crate behind him, an agonized scream ripping from his throat when his vision flashed with the same fire sweeping through his side.

Tortured nerve endings waged war inside Aramis' body, debilitating his efforts to breathe.

Gathering the last sparks of strength he possessed, Aramis refused to listen to the beckoning call of darkness, focusing instead on facing death with the heart and courage of a Musketeer.

When Aramis forced his lids open once more, he blinked to focus on Lazare's pistol. Aimed at his head, the dark tunnel of the barrel begged to show him the path to hell.

"You will never reach the Captain now," taunted Aramis.

"I am not here for the Captain," spat the assassin. "I came to kill the man thwarting my plans; the Musketeer gifted with the aim of the devil!"

Lazare's eyes flashed in anger as he stepped closer. "I came for you!"

With a sense of accomplishment, Aramis' lips curled into a smile. "Then you better get on with it."

As Aramis waited for the last sound he would ever hear, Queen Anne's face flitted across his field of vision. The sadness filling the depth of her eyes was so tangible that he wished he had the strength to reach out and smooth the lines of worry clouding her beautiful features.

Aramis now understood; the threat of imminent death providing the clarity that had eluded him for weeks.

As long as he could have watched over them, even from afar, he would have been fine. More importantly, they would have been fine.

His life had always been characterized by duty, honor and the losses he seemed destined to bear.

Isabelle.

Savoy.

Marsac.

In the past weeks, Aramis had allowed his feelings of despondency to poison his heart; had allowed the fact that he would never be a part of his son's life to cripple his spirit without considering the new purpose he had gained.

A purpose more important than anything he could have ever hoped to acquire; the chance to ensure the safety of his loved ones with the devotion of both a father and a lover.

And if the situation should arise, sacrificing his own life to save theirs would prove to be his greatest honor.

Aramis now realized his mistake. He could have had all that, done all that, with his brothers… family, by his side.

Lazare primed his weapon with a flick of his thumb. The knock of the pistol's hammer served to underline Aramis' regrets and deepen the hole in his heart.

Because now, Aramis believed his death would serve no one.

§§§

As d'Artagnan's lungs battled for enough oxygen to appease the shock to his body, he found no choice but to accommodate the quivering muscles inside his injured leg and let himself fall backward to sit on his rear.

With his right knee angled in front of him, his hands hovered over the hole in his breeches, unsure of his next move. The ball had penetrated his thigh to the left of the bone, shredding his flesh on its destructive path.

For the moment, the only sensation registering in d'Artagnan's addled mind was a dull throb, pulsing in tandem with the beat of his heart, but he knew the pain hovering in the shadows like a caged animal was just waiting for the opportunity to lash out.

The red patch circling the injury spread slowly; a mere trickle of blood escaping to seep into his leathers.

Confused by the scarce amount of bleeding, d'Artagnan moved one shaking hand to examine the back of his leg and noted the absence of an exit wound. The discovery evoked a bout of nausea, dread seizing his stomach with an iron fist. Swallowing convulsively, he struggled to keep his composure as cold sweat beaded his brow and a tremor shook his frame.

D'Artagnan blinked to fight the shadows invading his field of vision, trying to lure him into darkness. He knew he needed to redirect his focus or else he might succumb.

Concentrating on the cold creeping into his bones as the damp earth beneath him penetrated his leathers, he tore his gaze from the wound in his thigh to stare at the hole in his opponent's gut. As d'Artagnan watched the man's lifeblood transform a puddle of water into a red sea, his mind snapped back to the present.

"Who the hell just saved me?"

Turning his head to locate his brothers, d'Artagnan witnessed Porthos plunge his schiavona into his enemy's gut. Grasping the man's shoulder for leverage, Porthos pushed his sword deeper still.

Athos fought a few paces to the left, his boot leveraged on his victim's chest while he pulled his short blade from the man's throat.

As d'Artagnan's gaze continued to sweep the area, he found Treville clashing steel with one of the last mercenaries still drawing breath and realized that neither one of his friends would have been in range to fire the shot that saved his life.

Truth began to take shape in the back of d'Artagnan's mind as he turned to look behind him. Settling his gaze on the front window of the chapel, and noting the opening in the wall ran almost parallel to his position, he realized it would be difficult to hit a target from that angle.

"Difficult never discouraged Aramis before," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath.

D'Artagnan squinted at the darkness behind the window, attempting to catch a glimpse of his friend. A shadow crept along the edges of d'Artagnan's vision, drawing his attention to a figure peering around the far corner of the chapel.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened when he recognized the head of the enemy troupe sneaking along the wall of the brick building. With only a few hurried steps, the man reached the door to the chapel.

Panic wrapped around d'Artagnan's chest. "Aramis!" he shouted. "Watch out!"

The enemy crossed the threshold.

Staring at the empty doorway, d'Artagnan worked to control the terror strangling his heart.

Logic told him one opponent posed little threat for a seasoned soldier like Aramis; told him that his friend would be prepared to handle one man.

But instinct screamed in his ear, hollering at him to move. Now. Before it's too late.

Gritting his teeth, d'Artagnan pushed to his feet and centered his weight on his left leg.

Unsure whether or not his injury would allow him to walk, he cringed and took the first step, testing if his leg would support him.

It did.

"The rush of battle is truly a beautiful thing," he said with a smile, thanking the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Crossing the field as fast as he dared, d'Artagnan ignored the muscle spasms wracking his leg with each step. The quivers warned him that the respite he had been granted would come to an end sooner rather than later.

With only a few strides left, the sweat of d'Artagnan's exertions stung his eyes while the mud clinging to his boots conspired to see him fall as he slipped across the sloppy ground. Pushing forward, he freed the pistol from his belt, taking comfort in the familiar weight in his palm.

When d'Artagnan reached the entrance to the chapel, he pressed his back against the wall next to the door. Panting for breath, he allowed himself a moment to calm the tightness inside his chest.

Closing his eyes to focus his hearing past the drum of his heart, he tried to gauge the situation inside the building by listening for a cue.

Aware that he could ill afford to be drawn into a prolonged battle of any kind, d'Artagnan's plan for attack consisted of two words.

Swift and deadly.

The knocking of a pistol's hammer snapped his eyes open. The sound, filtered through the gap in the doorway, echoing in his ears.

Time to move.

Turning to face the door, d'Artagnan swung his good leg back then kicked the wooden slab standing in his way. As the door swung inward, the vibration of the impact shot through his injured muscles, causing him to cringe in response. With his pistol serving as an extension of his arm, d'Artagnan crossed the threshold, processing the scene before him in the blink of an eye.

"Not one more step, Musketeer," Lazare snarled, his eyes flashing with the fires of death, his weapon trained on Aramis' head. "I won't hesitate to..."

D'Artagnan's pistol roared to life as he squeezed the trigger, rumbling the walls of the enclosed space.

Swift.

Striking its target dead center, the ball tunneled through his opponent's forehead.

And deadly.

With a stuttering breath, the sense of danger fled d'Artagnan as Lazare crashed to the stone floor. A wave of relief washed over him to calm his panicked heart.

"D'Artagnan?"

The breathy whisper contained barely enough sound to form the shape of his name. And yet, it wielded enough force to break d'Artagnan's spellbound stare with the blood spatter decorating the ground next to Lazare's shattered skull.

Turning his head, d'Artagnan laid eyes on his friend.

Leaning against the frame of a wooden crate, the marksman braced himself on one elbow as if the burden of his weight proved too much to bear. Smudges of charcoal stained the ashen skin of his face while blood mingled with soot and grime on his leathers.

When d'Artagnan noted the fading light in his friend's eyes and witnessed a raging battle against darkness, his heart contracted painfully; urging him to aid his brother.

But d'Artagnan's legs refused to move for his world was slipping out of focus.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis called once more, the urgency in his voice conveying recognition of d'Artagnan's distress. Gritting his teeth, the marksman leaned forward, cradling one arm around his midsection. "Your leg."

As if the reminder of his wound possessed the power to bring it to life, an onslaught of pain shredded d'Artagnan's composure, crashing into him with the force of a hurricane.

The fire inside his limb stole his breath and slammed his heart against his ribcage. With a sharp exhale of breath, his muscles surrendered to the agonizing torture and he collapsed to the ground.

When d'Artagnan's knees struck stone, his upper body pitched forward, his balance and control out of reach.

But instead of crashing onto the unforgiving surface of the floor, he met the solid support of Aramis' chest. D'Artagnan succumbed to the security of the other man's embrace as a safety net of arms and leather enveloped him and guided him to the ground.

Deductive reasoning beyond his grasp, d'Artagnan failed to comprehend the meaning of the agonized grunt echoing in his ears or the listless body of his friend collapsing on top of him.

TBC

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Oh no. Another cliffhanger. Don't know how that keeps on happening *grin* But I hope you enjoyed this final battle scene and would love to hear your thoughts. And if you're waiting for heaps of comfort, don't miss the next chapter ;)


	8. Chapter 8

A big thank you to everyone who continues to read and review! I really appreciate the encouragement and support!

DeadMusketeer, thank you for continuing to volunteer your time, efforts, additions and suggestions. This chapter would not be the same without your input :)

And I do apologize for the delay in posting chapters. It couldn't be helped as I was on vacation. I do hope you'll still enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 8

Wednesday afternoon/evening

With a final grunt of effort, Athos thrust his rapier forward. The sound of ripping leather preceded a hellish scream as his sword pierced his victim's gut, forcing the man to his knees before he joined his comrades in death.

The thump of Athos' racing heart and cold fingers of sweat beading his brow, alerted him that the exhaustion of battle had taken its toll on his body. While he lifted the back of his hand to wipe away the manifestations of his exertions, his gaze drifted across the battlefield to weigh the situation.

Varying shades of red stained the earth before him as the blood of almost two dozen men seeped into the ground to mix with mud and water. A few yards to his left, Athos watched Porthos pull his schiavona from his opponent's ribcage and then turned to his right to witness Treville wipe his sword on a patch of grass, before returning it to its sheath.

When Athos looked back over the battlefield, he realized that Lazare's men lay defeated; every last one of them.

"But where is d'Artangan?" Athos muttered as he spun around, his insides coiling into knots when he failed to locate his friend.

The captain approached Athos, stepping over fallen bodies as he closed the distance between them. "Has either of you seen Lazare?" he called, cutting into Athos' thoughts and presenting another cause for concern. "His body is not amongst the dead."

Porthos joined Athos and Treville, shaking his head. "Haven't seen d'Artagnan either," he replied, his furrowed brow casting a shadow over his features. "You don't think…"

As Porthos' voice trailed off to scan their surroundings for signs of the young Gascon, Athos' instincts turned him toward the chapel at the other end of the battlefield. The blood rushed from his head when he noted the wooden door stood wide open.

The gruesome possibilities of what might be happening beyond that threshold sent Athos dashing across the field. Certain he had solved the mystery of both d'Artagnan's and Lazare's whereabouts, he devoured the distance separating him from the brick building.

"Bloody hell," Porthos exclaimed behind him as his hurried footfalls informed Athos he had joined the charge.

Athos' heart was bucking inside his chest by the time he reached the entrance to the building, threatening to damage the bones that trapped it. Maintaining his speed, he leapt across the threshold prepared to cut down anyone who dared to impede his efforts.

Three bodies disturbed Athos' line of sight.

Recognizing Lazare's bloodied corpse, Athos' mind quickly processed that the threat had been neutralized before narrowing his focus on the lifeless tangle of limbs belonging to Aramis and d'Artagnan. Panic seized Athos' vocal chords, trapping his voice. He ran forward and dropped to his knees next to his fallen comrades.

Aramis' lay face down on top of d'Artagnan; the unfavorable position of their bodies denying Athos the one piece of information that might calm the storm raging inside him.

Are they alive?

Reaching out, Athos cursed his anxious tremor as his gloved hand touched Aramis' shoulder. He worked his fingers into the marksman's muscles, hoping to rouse him. "Aramis?"

Athos' breath hitched when he failed to receive a response, the need for clarity regarding his men's condition crushing his chest with its weight.

Quickly, Athos slid his arm beneath Aramis' upper body, intent on separating his friends to gain access to whatever injuries lay hidden.

"Athos?"

Following the sound of Porthos' voice, Athos lifted his head to find his friend in the doorway; the imposing figure of the man a stark contrast to the fear coloring his words.

Unable to satisfy Porthos' need for reassurance, Athos returned to his task. "Help me lift him," he demanded, indicating Aramis' motionless form. "And where is Treville?"

Porthos' hurried steps whirled a cloud of ash and dust into the air as his boots disturbed the layer of soot covering the ground. "With the horses," he replied, dropping to his knees opposite Athos. "He's gathering our supplies."

Porthos slipped his hands under Aramis' shoulders. Together they turned his limp body over to settle him on his back next to their younger friend at Athos' knees.

"Check on d'Artagnan," Athos demanded, pulling off his gloves.

Pressing his bare hand against the marksman's chest, Athos' eyes fell shut and a breath of air rushed from his lungs as the frantic beat of a heart filled his palm. "He lives."

Porthos huffed a breath at the news, dragging one hand down his face as if to rid himself of the demons daring to whisper a different tale.

Withdrawing the fingers of his other hand from d'Artagnan's neck, Porthos rocked back on his haunches. "So does d'Artagnan," he revealed, the rasp in his voice exposing his stress. "His pulse is strong."

Athos' continued examination of Aramis' torso offered further encouragement as he slid his fingers across the man's chest. A layer of mud and grime covered the right side of Aramis' doublet but no obvious tears or holes revealed any indication of serious injury.

Athos studied the marksman's features. His gaze paused on the lines of pain crinkling the corners of his friend's eyes then traced every crack in his dry lips before settling on a large gash above Aramis' eyebrow.

The split flesh of the wound allowed a stream of red to escape and run down the side of Aramis' face to stain the white canvas of his skin. The collage of blue and purple bruises forming around the marksman's eye supported Athos' suspicion that the head wound presented the reason for Aramis' unconscious state.

When Athos reached out to probe the wound and stem the flow of blood, Porthos' voice halted his movements.

"Shit. D'Artagnan took a ball to the thigh and there's no exit wound."

Athos' eyes snapped up and he cringed in sympathy as Porthos removed his head scarf to cover the ragged hole in d'Artagnan's leg.

The younger musketeer flinched and groaned, his eyes blinking rapidly as he came back to awareness.

Porthos rested one hand on d'Artagnan's chest. "Easy lad. Take it slow n' steady."

With a grunt of effort, d'Artagnan struggled to work himself onto his elbows, his chest heaving under the strain while his eyes burned with determination. "How's Aramis?" he asked.

Prompted by d'Artagnan's strangled whisper, Athos reached to probe the gash on Aramis' brow. "He received a decent blow to the head, but he should be..." Athos' words died on his lips when his fingers made contact with the area around Aramis' wound.

"What is it?" Porthos asked, a nervous undercurrent tainting his voice.

"He's burning up," replied Athos, his brows knitting together as the heat radiating off Aramis' forehead warmed his palm.

Struggling with his weakened body, d'Artagnan pushed further against the stone floor and sat up. Porthos grasped the younger man's elbow to assure his balance while his other hand maintained pressure on the leg wound.

"Did you... examine his ribs?" d'Artagnan rasped, the fire of pain burning bright inside his eyes. "He could barely hold... himself up when I entered the chapel."

Spurred into action, and scared he had missed something, Athos fumbled with the leather clasps on Aramis' doublet.

"Wait," Porthos demanded. He relinquished his hold on d'Artagnan's elbow before leaning forward to wrap his fingers around the marksman's wrist and move his arm to the side. "What's this?"

Scrutinizing Porthos' findings, Athos swallowed the guilt forming a lump in his throat. "It seems a ball grazed his side," he acknowledged in disbelief, tracing the laceration along Aramis' ribcage with his fingers. "And this," Athos continued, hoping not to choke on his words as he stared at two ragged holes in Aramis' sleeve. "Is a knife wound."

Re-evaluating the stains he had previously dismissed as dried mud and grime, Athos released a rushed breath of air as the truth punched him in the gut. "Most of this is blood," he said, fear strangling his voice into a raspy whisper.

"I hope his wounds didn't fester," Porthos added as he too brushed his fingers across Aramis' heated brow.

"So do I," Treville said, entering the chapel and drawing Athos' attention. Carrying saddle bags and cloaks on his shoulders, the captain stepped closer. "We tended his wounds to the best of our abilities. We stopped the bleeding but..."

"Infection may have set in," Athos concluded, his own words causing his heart to flutter inside his chest.

Treville nodded. "It's quite possible," he said, placing the saddle bags on the ground next to his men and handing Porthos one of the cloaks.

Moaning at their captain's alarming response, Porthos accepted the offering and leaned over d'Artagnan to slip the wool coat under Aramis' head. "What the hell 'appened to you out there? Looks like he lost half 'is blood supply," he said, returning his hands to apply pressure to d'Artagnan's wound.

"It's his arm," the Captain responded. Rolling his shoulder, Treville grimaced before dropping to one knee to search the supply bags. "The blade went straight through and the bleeding proved… extensive."

D'Artagnan swayed, his voice altered by the brunt of his pain when he spoke. "Then we must…" His words of insistence trailed off as his eyes pinched shut and his chest heaved.

Athos cursed himself for not recognizing the seriousness of Aramis' condition, so when he witnessed tremors shaking d'Artagnan's frame and watched his olive skin turn ashen, Athos rushed to d'Artagnan's side, determined not to make the same mistake twice.

Reaching forward, he squeezed the back of d'Artagnan's neck, attempting to divert the Gascon's focus to his own wound. "We must tend to your leg. Aramis would be furious if he woke to realize we had neglected a serious injury on his behalf."

D'Artagnan shook his head, denial clouding his gaze. "Please, Athos. Help him," he begged. "He saved... my life."

D'Artagnan's strangled plea shredded Athos' emotions, causing him to blink back the needles pricking his eyes. "And I assume you saved his?" he asked, indicating Lazare's lifeless form.

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Then you have shown true courage and skill, and Aramis lives because of it," said Athos.

"Don't worry lad," Porthos added. "I'll tend his wounds and look for infection. Let Athos take care of ya, alright?"

Acceptance slowly settled into d'Artagnan's gaze and he issued a stilted nod as Porthos' words seemed to reassure him.

"What… happened?"

Aramis' faint mumble caused Athos' heart to leap into his throat. His eyes snapped down, hoping that his ears hadn't deceived him.

Porthos moved to Aramis' side and rested a hand on the marksman's chest. "As always, it seems you're too stubborn to die," he said quietly, a crooked smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "That's what 'appened."

When Aramis' dark eyes blinked away the shadows of confusion in his gaze, Athos released a breath of air. "It is good to see you awake, my friend," he admitted, allowing a wave of relief to warm his insides.

Trusting Porthos to tend to Aramis' needs, Athos took hold of the bandage covering d'Artagnan's thigh.

"So glad you could join us," d'Artagnan said, leaning over to grasp the marksman's shoulder. "I was starting to worry."

"No need," Aramis assured, locking his dark eyes on d'Artagnan's. "I'm right here. Thanks to you."

D'Artagnan shrugged, his lips thinning into a smile. "I only returned the favor."

"Alright," interrupted Porthos, his forehead creased in concern as he studied Aramis' features. "Let's take a good look at those wounds, yeah?"

Shaking his head, Aramis pushed against the stone floor with his left arm. "Not yet," he said with a grunt as he tried to sit up.

"Ey!" Porthos snapped. "What the hell do ya think you're doin'?"

Fighting his way upward with lips pressed tight and eyes pinched shut, Aramis' breath heaved under the strain. Once he was sitting straight, his torso rocked with a tremor when tortured muscles seized in protest, pitching him forward into Porthos' chest.

Aramis groaned in pain but refused to yield. "We must remove the ball from d'Artagnan's leg," he mumbled into Porthos' leathers as his friend's strong embrace held him close.

"Athos is handlin' it," Porthos assured, his voice desperate to convince. "It's not his first time fixin' a battle wound. No need to worry 'bout anything, alright?"

While the exchange of his two oldest friends played out in his periphery, Athos braced d'Artagnan to help him scoot backward, settling the young man's back against the wall of the chapel.

As Treville provided a bottle of spirits, a leather pouch containing their field supplies and multiple strips of linen, Athos pulled his main gauche to aid in his next task. Carefully inserting the blade into the hole of d'Artagnan's breeches, he cut the material to gain access to the injury, cringing at d'Artagnan's gasp of pain.

"You don't understand," Aramis insisted, pushing against Porthos' chest with an iron will.

"I understand that we're surrounded by self-sacrificin' fools," huffed Porthos.

Disregarding his friend's cynicism, Aramis' voice adopted a desperate edge. "Athos. Look at me!"

The distress marring the marksman's words halted Athos' movements. Turning, he locked his eyes on Aramis and flinched at the intensity of his friend's gaze.

"I've seen an injury very similar to this one," Aramis started. "The victim bled out mere minutes after the ball was removed from his thigh." Pausing, he edged closer to d'Artagnan's side. "We must be extremely careful or we might damage something we have no hope to repair."

Cold fingers crept up Athos' spine. Releasing a breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "What is your solution?"

"Let me do it," Aramis suggested. "My experience will increase his chances."

Porthos shook his head. "You can barely sit straight."

Aramis shrugged. "Luckily, that is not a requirement for the task I face."

As Porthos growled at the statement, Athos contemplated the marksman's words, his gaze shifting between his injured men.

D'Artagnan rested his head against the wall, his chest heaving a mad rhythm while Aramis' rigid posture signaled his distress; the arm he held around his midsection possibly the only thing holding him together.

While Athos shared in Porthos' reluctance to let Aramis push himself any further, he was forced to consider all variables when d'Artagnan's blood leaked through the bandage to remind him of the stakes. Staring at the trickle of red seeping through his fingers, Athos realized that for the sake of all of his men, he would have to defer to Aramis' better judgment.

Searching the marksman's gaze, Athos found a spark of confidence that seemed to override Aramis' physical ailments. Nodding in agreement, Athos moved to the side, allowing his friend to take charge.

When Porthos opened his mouth, Aramis' hand came to rest on the larger man's arm. "Please don't object, my friend," he whispered, his eyes alight with a desperate need to gain approval. "I don't have it in me to fight another battle and I cannot do this without you by my side."

Releasing a strangled breath, Porthos' forehead creased with lines of sorrow. "You're tryin' to save our young friend," he said, his voice a low rumble. "How could I object to that?" Reaching out, Porthos rested his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "I'm 'ere. As always."

As the offered support relaxed Aramis' features, he nodded slowly, his eyes flashing brightly with unspoken gratitude.

Clearing his throat, Aramis clenched his jaw and straightened his back before leveling his gaze on d'Artagnan. When Aramis studied the younger man's pinched eyes and skin that looked a few shades shy of its normal color, his brows knitted together. "D'Artagnan?" he called, cupping the Gascon's neck.

Slow to respond, d'Artagnan's lids fluttered open.

"There he is," Aramis encouraged. "How are you feeling, my friend?"

Blinking, d'Artagnan fought to focus on his surroundings. "I should be the one asking that," he replied. "You look... terrible."

With a chuckle, Aramis grasped the younger man's shoulder. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you're not a pretty sight yourself."

"I could have guessed," d'Artagnan relented with a rueful smile.

"What do you say we get this offending object out of your leg, hm?"

D'Artagnan shifted in obvious discomfort, gritting his teeth at the movement. "I wouldn't say no to that."

Athos watched Aramis lift one corner of Porthos' headscarf to examine d'Artagnan's thigh. "What do you need?" he asked.

"Use the brandy to clean the forceps," Aramis instructed, probing the injury with gentle fingers.

When d'Artagnan flinched and his leg began to quiver, Athos moved closer and covered d'Artagnan's hand with his.

"Breathe," Athos urged. "You will be alright. I promise."

With a stilted nod, d'Artagnan seized Athos with a stare as if searching for an anchor.

"Aramis?" Athos questioned without breaking eye contact with his young charge.

"The ball entered the inner thigh at an angle," Aramis started, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "As far as I can tell, there is no fracture to the bone but the location of the swelling tells me the ball has lodged itself fairly deep."

"Course it did," Porthos huffed. "Can you remove it?"

"Yes," replied Aramis, looking up to meet d'Artagnan's gaze. "Very, very carefully."

When d'Artagnan jerked his head in understanding, Aramis turned to Treville. "Can you hand me the forceps and the bottle of brandy?"

"Here," responded Treville, placing the metal instrument into Aramis' open palm. "It's clean."

But instead of alcohol, Treville handed him one of the water skins. "I'll clean d'Artagnan's wound," he directed with a pointed look. "You drink this water. Small sips."

Aramis' tongue darted out between parched lips as his fingers wrapped around the skin. He seemed hesitant at first, but when he guided the water to his mouth and the cool liquid began to flow he closed his eyes and sighed.

As Aramis endeavored to quench his thirst, Treville pulled the cork from the bottle of spirits. Turning to d'Artagnan, the captain's eyes reflected a silent apology when he tipped the bottle over the wound. "Are you ready, son?"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes. "Do it," he rasped.

When the stream of alcohol flushed the ragged hole in d'Artagnan's thigh and caused his breath to fire in rapid succession, Athos instinctively tightened his grip on the younger man's hand, hoping the comfort he wished to convey would filter through his touch.

Longing for a moment of rest for both of his men, Athos felt the urge to move proceedings along. "Aramis?" he called. "Are you ready for the next step?"

When the marksman didn't respond, Athos lifted his gaze to investigate and frowned.

Aramis was staring at the metal tool in his hand, its uncontrolled bounce having captured his gaze as it shook along with the silent tremors that seized his injured arm.

"Athos," Aramis whispered. "I'm not sure I can..."

TBC

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I hope you enjoyed this first part of my comfort scene :) I won't make you wait long for the second part. I promise.


	9. Chapter 9

I really appreciate everyone who's read along this far and commented on this story. Thank you so much!

A huge thank you also to DeadShot Musketeer for her wonderful additions and support :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.  
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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 9

Wednesday afternoon/evening

"Athos," Aramis whispered. "I'm not sure I can..."

Before Athos could find any words of comfort within the mess of emotions governing his mind, Porthos' fingers wrapped around Aramis' hand, restraining the tremor that had once again seized control of the marksman's limb.

"Course you can do this," the larger man assured with a voice as smooth as whiskey. "You know why?"

At Aramis' continued lack of response, Porthos visibly tightened his grip, attempting to chase away the panic reflected in Aramis' gaze.

"Ey, look at me," Porthos demanded, placing two fingers beneath the marksman's chin to lift his head. When their eyes met, Porthos repeated, "Do you know why?"

Shaking his head, Aramis' usual stoicism failed as lines of pain drew a clear picture of his suffering across his face.

"Because 'e needs ya," stated Porthos as he guided Aramis' head to face d'Artagnan. "An' I know for a fact you won't fail until e's taken care of."

Athos watched as Porthos concealed his own concern behind a solid wall of support to help Aramis focus. As pride swelled Athos' chest, he found it difficult to swallow around the tightness constricting his throat.

"So let's calm down now, alright?" Porthos pushed on, completely attuned to Aramis' needs. "Breathe with me. Slow n' steady." Keeping one hand tightly wrapped around Aramis' fingers, Porthos placed the other one over his friend's heart. "Follow my lead an' I promise you, the tremor will stop."

As his men breathed in tandem, Athos witnessed the effects of Porthos' care when Aramis' chest ceased its stuttering and the fiery panic inside his eyes receded to a dull glimmer.

"In… and out," Porthos advised one more time before releasing his hold on Aramis' hand. "Yeah, that's it."

When a slow smile spread across Porthos' face, Athos realized that Aramis' hand, and the forceps, remained steady.

"Thank you, my friend," Aramis whispered, a sigh of relief slipping quietly from his lips.

Porthos nodded, his eyes reflecting his emotions. "Anytime," he promised, clasping Aramis' shoulder. "Now. Let's get this over with, eh?"

Turning toward d'Artagnan, Aramis scrutinized the younger man's condition. "I apologize for the delay in assistance," he remarked. "It won't happen again."

"Let Porthos tend your wounds," d'Artagnan pleaded, ignoring the marksman's attempt at levity as his voice grew more desperate with each heaving breath. "Athos will take care of my leg. It will be alright."

"No. This is my task," Aramis said, his voice firm. "I promise, I will not fail you."

"That's not... what I'm worried about."

A smile brightened Aramis' features and he briefly patted d'Artagnan's cheek before turning his attention to Athos. "Keep him steady," he instructed. "It's imperative that he remains as still as possible."

Placing one hand just below the wound and bracing his other against d'Artagnan's hip, Athos nodded his compliance. "Understood."

As soon as Aramis slipped the forceps into the bloody opening in d'Artagnan's thigh, the younger man's muscles shuddered in distress, his head jerking backward to smash into the wall as he attempted to escape the pain.

"Bloody hell!" d'Artagnan yelled.

Athos pushed down on d'Artagnan's leg and hip, using his weight to restrain his friend's body as it writhed.

"Look at me," implored Athos, his voice tainted with concern. "I realize this hurts but you must hold steady."

D'Artagnan pressed his lips together and struggled to follow the command. As his breath fired through his nostrils in tandem with his heaving chest, Athos realized how difficult this was for him.

As the forceps dug deeper, Athos recognized the signs of surrender in d'Artagnan's eyes as a tremor took hold of his body. Athos swallowed around the tightness in his throat and turned to Aramis. "How are we doing?"

"Give 'im another moment," Porthos interjected. "He's almost there."

"A tiny bit... further," Aramis said, guiding his forceps to grasp the lead ball. "I can feel it against the metal…"

D'Artagnan's body bucked under the torment inflicted on him.

"Damn it, Athos," shouted Aramis. "Hold him!"

"D'Artagnan," Athos called, desperate to reclaim the younger man's focus as he watched him slip deeper into the clutches of agony. "Stay with me. Listen to my voice."

Panic seized Athos' heart when pinched eyes and stuttering gasps told him that d'Artagnan was beyond reason; that no effort on his part would prove sufficient against the younger man's hopeless attempts to flee the pain.

"Athos!"

When Aramis' distressed yell reminded Athos of the stakes, he closed his heart to the advancing regret taking hold of his emotions and accepted the inevitability of his next action.

"Forgive me, my friend," Athos muttered under his breath. He drew his arm back then swung his fist, wincing when his knuckles crashed into d'Artagnan's temple.

The blow knocked the younger man unconscious, relaxing his features as he slipped free of the pain. As d'Artagnan ceased his struggles, his limp body slid sideways into Treville's waiting arms.

"He's out," Athos ground out between clenched teeth. "Now finish it."

Aramis' eyes narrowed to slits as he focused on his task. With a final twist of his wrist, he pinched down on the tool in his hand. "Got it," he exclaimed with a stuttering breath.

Pulling the forceps from the messy hole with care, Aramis released the tool in his hand, ball and forceps clattering on the ground and echoing like a drum in the back of Athos' mind.

Athos narrowed his eyes on the small river of red escaping d'Artagnan's thigh and sucked in a breath. "Did you…?"

"No," Aramis assured him in a strained voice. "It's alright. Trust me, any major damage to his blood vessels would be obvious by now."

As relief forced the air from his lungs, Athos rested his hand on d'Artagnan's chest and allowed himself a moment to relish in the strong beat against his palm.

Aramis returned Porthos' headscarf to the Gascon's leg, stemming the flow of blood. "The wound must be cleaned, sutured and bandaged."

Treville covered Aramis' hand with his. "I will take it from here," he said, catching the marksman's gaze in order to reassure him.

The blood staining Aramis' left temple clashed with his ashen skin, and with glazed eyes, he started to sway. Still refusing to relinquish control over d'Artagnan's care, and ignoring Treville's advice, Aramis stubbornly held pressure on the leg.

"You've done your part," implored Athos, his voice rough with the need to convince.

The marksman's waning balance alerted Athos to the possibility that Aramis might have sacrificed his remaining strength to aid d'Artagnan. "Treville's got him," assured Athos. "He's a capable seamstress in his own right."

A ghost of a smile played on Aramis' lips right before his eyes fell shut. As he surrendered to Athos' words, his jaw slackened and his shoulders slumped with the release of his responsibilities.

Aramis' body pitched forward into Porthos' chest, wherein the larger man wrapped his arms around his friend's torso to guide him backward.

"Let me remove his coat before you lay him down," Athos directed as he reached for the doublet. A low groan slipped from Aramis' lips when Athos bent the injured arm at the elbow to slide it out of the sleeve.

"Easy now," Porthos cautioned, settling Aramis' body on the ground where one of the cloaks served as a makeshift mattress.

Finally able to gauge the full extent of the damage, Athos gaped at the dark stains of blood blanketing Aramis' right side.

"Jesus," Porthos breathed, shaking his head. "How'd he keep goin' til now?"

Athos sighed. "For as long as I've known him, he has always stubbornly refused to allow any physical ailment to impede his ambitions," he stated as he gripped the hem of Aramis' shirt.

The feel of the material between his fingers pulled Athos' brows into a scowl. "Warm and wet," he muttered as he hurried to lift the fabric and untie the sash covering the marksman's midsection.

When fresh blood seeped from the gash along Aramis' ribcage, Athos cursed under his breath. "I thought you stopped the bleeding," he blurted, snatching one of the linen cloths from the ground to stem the flow.

Aramis winced at the pressure but unscrewed his eyes. "It must have... reopened," he said, his breath catching in his throat. "When Lazare's boot found its way into my ribcage."

Athos reached for the water skin and yanked out the cork with his teeth. "And naturally you neglected to mention that," he scolded.

"It's like I said before," grumbled Porthos. "Self-sacrificing fools."

Athos arched a brow. "On that, we can agree."

When Athos and Porthos nodded in unison, their observation was met by a huff of indignity from Aramis. "The injuries to my side... are probably the least of my worries," Aramis ground out between clenched teeth.

Athos lifted the cloth to pour a stream of water across the wound. "You might be right," he relented as he studied the injury. "The gash is deep enough to require stitches and the bruising on your skin suggests you sustained a broken rib, but there is no sign of infection."

"Here," Porthos offered, holding the bottle of spirits. "Let's keep it that way."

At Athos' nod of approval, the larger man tipped the bottle, directing the flow of alcohol over the gash.

Aramis groaned, digging his head into the ground beneath him while glassy eyes stared at the ceiling.

In an attempt to comfort, Athos moved his hand across the marksman's brow and into damp curls. Alerted by the heat that met his palm, his heart dropped away inside him with a sick lurch.

"We will worry about the stitches later," Athos decided, pressing a fresh piece of cloth on top of the injury. "I want to have a look at that arm."

As Porthos moved in to keep pressure on the marksman's side, Athos pushed up Aramis' sleeve and untied the makeshift bandage to gain access to the wound.

"You cauterized it," Athos muttered, cringing at the sight of red swollen edges around two burnt puncture wounds.

"There was no other choice," Treville explained, regret coloring his words as he threaded the needle in his hand.

Clamping down on the nausea rising in his throat, and unable to tear his gaze from the grossly infected injury, Athos nodded.

"How bad is it?" Treville asked, carefully inserting the curved needle into d'Artagnan's skin to place his first stitch as he concentrated on closing the wound in the younger man's thigh.

Athos placed his fingers to the cauterized flesh to examine the site of Aramis' injury. Athos' breath hitched when thick, yellow fluid seeped from the wound. "It's not good," he informed Treville.

Trying to capture Aramis' focus, Athos brushed his knuckles against his friend's heated cheek. "We must flush the wound," he explained, wincing at the confusion ruling his friend's gaze.

Aramis was fading fast.

"Is there anything else we can do?" Athos asked, hoping his voice would penetrate the marksman's pain. Because Aramis retained a vast knowledge of wound treatment, Athos thought it best he share any information that might help treat the infection before he lost consciousness.

When Aramis clenched his jaw and his head rolled to the side, Athos' heart sank.

Sighing in helplessness, he grasped the bottle of spirits.

"Wait," demanded Porthos. Leaning close, he rested one hand over Aramis' heart while the other cupped the marksman's neck to brush a gentle thumb along his jawline.

"Aramis, look at me," Porthos whispered. "It's not nap time just yet."

When Aramis blinked rapidly, fighting his ailments to meet Porthos' gaze, a low moan escaped his lips. "Yeah, that's it," Porthos encouraged. "You 'ave to tell us what to do."

"Do. What?"

"How to treat the infection," Porthos clarified.

Aramis swallowed, wincing at the motion. "Herbs."

Porthos sighed with regret. "Yeah, we don't 'ave those."

Aramis' head jerked in acknowledgment. "Honey then?"

"Honey?" Porthos repeated.

When Aramis remained silent, Athos interjected, "Aramis told me once that honey can help ward off infection."

"Then you're lucky I have a sweet tooth," Porthos said. "I always carry some in my saddle bag."

"I know you do," Aramis replied, fighting against his panting breath. "Your sweet tooth is hardly a secret. Just apply it... to the wound before you wrap it."

Reaching down, Porthos searched one of the bags on the ground. "This goin' to work?" he asked as he produced a small jar of honey.

Aramis drew in a deep stuttering breath. "I honestly... don't know," he said, exhaling slowly through pursed lips.

"Sounds encouraging," Porthos grumbled. "Just keep in mind that honey is expensive. You ain't going anywhere til you pay me back."

Aramis chuckled then gasped for air as his eyes slammed shut.

"It's time," Athos warned, lifting the bottle of spirits and a clean strip of linen. "Brace him."

"You stay with me, alright?" Porthos whispered in Aramis' ear as he circled the marksman's wrist and applied pressure to his shoulder to keep the injured arm steady.

Athos poured the liquid.

Closing his heart to Aramis' tortured screams, Athos rubbed the wound to cleanse it of gunpowder residue and pus.

Porthos' whispers of comfort flitted along the edge of Athos' awareness, the meaning of the words shrouded in mystery as he concentrated solely on the horrid task bestowed on him.

With sweat beading his brow, Athos flushed the wound one more time, and with a final shudder wracking his frame, Aramis surrendered to his torment.

"He's out," Porthos confirmed.

Squeezing the cauterized puncture wounds to ensure the infection was draining properly, Athos smiled when only a small amount of pus escaped.

"Here," Porthos said, passing him the glass jar.

Scooping honey out of the jar with his fingers, Athos rubbed it into the wound before covering it with a piece of cloth while Porthos looped another strip of linen around the arm and tied it off.

"He better be right about this," the larger man muttered under his breath.

"He is," Athos responded with more confidence than he felt, forcing himself to stay positive for he refused to consider any other outcome.

When his tired mind provided an image of Aramis' bleeding ribs, Athos shifted to reach for a needle and thread. His world tipped sideways, and driven by exhaustion his body slumped.

"Woah," cautioned Porthos, halting Athos' plummet to the ground with strong arms. "Don't clock out on me now, brother. You're not hidin' a hurt, are you?"

Athos blinked rapidly. "No, I'm fine. It's been..."

"It's been a long day."

"Yes," Athos agreed. "Yes, it has."

His blurred vision refused to slip back into focus, but Athos straightened regardless. When his gaze caught on Aramis' motionless form, the concern for his brother threatened to drain the last of Athos' energy. "And by the looks of it, it will be a long night."

Porthos guided Athos back against the wall. "You need to take a moment," he said, passing him one of the water skins. "Drink."

Reluctant to admit his weakness but aware that he would be of no use to anyone as long as his blood continued to rush through his ears, Athos decided to obey his friend and take a sip from the skin. When the cool liquid slid down his throat, reviving his tired body, he took a few steadying breaths and was pleased when his vision cleared.

Bracing his forearms on bent knees, Athos watched Porthos return to Aramis' side. The larger man drenched a piece of linen with water from another container and then placed it on Aramis' forehead.

When Porthos pulled a curved needle from their supply pouch, doused it in alcohol and started to thread it, Athos' brows knitted together. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Porthos returned. "I'm gonna stitch 'im up."

Athos' lips curved into a smile. "Do you think he'll appreciate the... quality of your needlework?"

Porthos scoffed. "Lookin' at your green face, I'm feelin' pretty confident that my stitching would prove superior at the moment."

"If you leave a messy scar, you will never hear the end of it."

"Well," Porthos said as he lifted the cloth off Aramis' side and inserted the needle into the bloody edge of the gash to place his first suture. "He'll just have to live with it, won't 'e?"

"He won't like it," Athos muttered, his smile fading when he leveled his gaze on Aramis' lax features. As the fever wracked the marksman's body and leached all remaining color from his face, Athos failed to reconcile the sight of the man before him with the charismatic one he called brother.

He welcomed the distraction when Treville dropped down next to him, the captain's knee joints cracking in protest at the movement.

"How is he?" Athos asked, settling his eyes on d'Artagnan's prone form.

"Still unconscious," Treville replied. "Your fist packs quite a punch."

Athos cringed. "I am sorry about that."

"A necessary evil, my friend," his captain assured. "You did the right thing."

Leaning forward, Treville lifted his right hand to work his fingers into his opposite shoulder as if trying to rid himself of some unseen affliction. "Rest assured," he continued, "d'Artagnan's wound is well taken care of and I believe he'll make a full recovery."

Athos rested his head against the wall behind him and allowed the captain's words to register as truth.

"What is Porthos doing?" Treville asked, his eyes squinting in confusion as they tracked the large man's movements.

"Applying sutures to Aramis' side," replied Athos.

The captain shook his head. "I'm not sure he'll appreciate a messy scar."

"Ey! I can hear you, you know," Porthos complained, but kept his eyes on the task before him as his blood-stained fingers pulled on the thread to tighten his last stitch.

A shadow flitted across Treville's face when his eyes settled on the bandage concealing the marksman's infected arm. "Is he going to be able to fight this?"

"We will find out tonight," Athos predicted, hoping his voice didn't carry the concern tightening his chest. "Under normal circumstance I wouldn't question his ability to heal, but with the trauma and blood loss he has sustained... We will have to wait and see.

Aramis' head jerked to the side. His sweat-drenched features glistened in the last rays of daylight filtering through the windows, exposing the horrors of his fevered dream.

"And so it begins," Athos muttered as he pushed away from the wall to return to his friend's side. Running a comforting hand through Aramis' damp curls, he settled in for the night.

§§§

Wednesday, late evening

Milady de Winter hid in the darkness like the creature of shadow she had become. Concealed by the wooden door of the side entrance to the Cardinal's study, she surveyed the room through a crack in the wood.

Milady still struggled to discern the true reason for her clandestine behavior, and had thought warning Athos of the Cardinal's plans would quiet the storm raging inside her heart. When it hadn't, she started to realize the only way she'd find the inner peace she craved was to see Richelieu draw his last breath.

Whether this insight resulted from her own selfish desire for vengeance or her desperate attempt to preserve the last spark of humanity within her, remained a mystery.

The glow of a candle bathed the office beyond her hiding place with an orange glow and served to accentuate the agitation on the Cardinal's face as he paced the tiled floor like a caged animal.

As a knock vibrated against the front door of the office, Richelieu halted his urgent steps to stand in front of his desk.

"Come."

Stepping over the threshold, the captain of the red guard bowed briefly. "You wished to see me."

"Has Lazare sent word?" the Cardinal asked, clasping shaking hands behind his back. "We should have heard from him by now."

"No, your Eminence," the man said with downcast eyes. "Not yet."

Richelieu spun around and swiped his arm across the table. A furious roar broke from his chest as scrolls and ink clattered to the ground.

"This plan must not fail!" he yelled, bracing his hands on his desk with his head hanging low between hunched shoulders.

Milady smiled at the Cardinal's outburst, relishing the panic in his voice.

"I'm sure the mission was successful and the messenger is well on his way," the guard assured. "After all, what match are two musketeers against a contingent of forty men?"

The Cardinal exhaled sharply and squared his shoulders as he turned to face the guard. "You better hope you're right," he snapped. "For if my plans are discovered, the Musketeer's code of honor will demand justice."

"I understand. I will inform you as soon as we receive word."

As the front door latched to announce the guard's departure, the Cardinal turned on his heels, the black material of his cloak slapping the air as he resumed pacing.

Milady's smile widened, knowing that the Cardinal did not yet realize the irrelevance of his concerns. And she knew that regardless of her ultimate motivations, Richelieu had to be stopped. The devil's reign over France had lasted long enough and his time for recompense had finally come.

No one would deny the truth of that statement. Not even Athos.

But shackled by his duty to his King and his ridiculous code of honor, her estranged husband would never allow himself to indulge the possibility of murder. No matter how justified.

Fortunately, she was not bound by such restrictions.

Releasing the needle embedded into the braided wire of her ring, she watched as a drop of poison escaped to glisten in the faint glow of the candle.

"Tonight you shall pay your dues, my dear Cardinal," she whispered. "And walk the path to hell."

She pushed against the door and entered the room.

TBC  
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I hope you enjoyed all the comfort, they certainly deserved it :) And hopefully, the Cardinal's fate provided a little surprise. Would love to hear your thoughts :)

Only one more chapter to go.


	10. Chapter 10

Here it is folks, the very last chapter. I have to say, I'm sad to see this story end :)

Once again, a huge thank you to everyone who has read, followed and reviewed this story. I've cherished every one of your comments!

And a very special thank you to DeadshotMusketeer for her support, patience and hard work throughout.

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Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 10

Thursday morning, dawn

Porthos slumped against the wall of the chapel and rubbed the grit from his eyes, wishing he could erase the horrors of the night as easily.

Lifting his gaze to the window, he watched the purple hues of an early dawn fight back the darkness. The light of the new day failed to dispel Porthos' worries as exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, and the stress of watching Aramis battle fever and nightmares throughout the night tore his spirit.

Hugging his knees, Porthos bent over and rested his head on his arms, surrendering to the headache endeavoring to split his brain.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked.

Apparently, there was no rest for the weary.

Lifting his head, Porthos' flinched as needles pierced the area behind his eyes. When he glanced to his right, he found d'Artagnan laying on his side next to a sleeping Athos, his injured leg curled on top of his left and a cloak bunched up beneath his head.

"Thought I told you to sleep?" he said.

"I tried," d'Artagnan replied. "And failed."

The younger man shifted, deepening the lines around his eyes and exposing the reason for his insomnia. "My leg aches. I can't seem to get comfortable," he admitted. "And also…"

As d'Artagnan's voice trailed off, his worried gaze settled on Aramis' unconscious form.

Porthos sighed but nodded in understanding. "Yeah. I get it," he said, watching the frantic rise and fall of the marksman's chest as infection taxed his heart.

Before the first ray of sunlight filtered through the window, Aramis' fevered mumblings had ceased, suggesting the demons ruling his mind had finally granted him a small respite.

Demons might not be the appropriate word, Porthos corrected himself as his mind's eye provided a disjointed memory of Aramis thrashing under the influence of his dreams and uttering one name.

Anne.

As the name repeatedly spilled from his friend's lips like a broken plea, the image of a beautiful woman handing Aramis a golden cross invaded the edges of Porthos' consciousness. "She's not a woman," he heard himself say. "She's the Queen."

When Porthos' overtaxed mind reminded him of that moment, he moaned inwardly.

He had decided not to jump to conclusions; to reserve his judgment for the day Aramis chose to share the truth. Until then, Porthos would expel the name from his head.

Despite the marksman's reputation, Porthos learned long ago that while his friend's heart inspired him to be reckless at times, he still held himself to the highest code of honor when it came to women. Porthos didn't know how her name came to fall from Aramis' lips and he felt certain the true context of the situation eluded him.

"Porthos?" d'Artagnan called, his query cutting through Porthos' thoughts. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the pressure behind his eyes. "Just tired."

To distract from his own weariness, Porthos answered d'Artagnan's original question. "I checked 'is wound not along ago," he said. "It looks cleaner, though his skin is still too hot."

D'Artagnan pushed off the ground to sit up, shuffling backward until his shoulder blades touched the wall next to Porthos. "He's strong," the younger man said, wincing as the movement jostled his leg. "He will win this battle."

Nodding, Porthos clung to the Gascon's words as if they proclaimed the only possible outcome.

"I thought I told you to wake me when dawn approaches," grumbled Athos as he leveled himself into a seated position.

Porthos snorted. "Took me so long to convince you to lay down that I thought I'd savor my victory for another few minutes."

Athos huffed before scanning Aramis' prone form. "How is he?"

"Fever 'asn't quite broken yet," Porthos answered with a sigh. "But 'e's gettin' there."

As their voices rumbled against the wall of the chapel, Treville pushed himself up as well, scrubbing his face with one hand. "It's time to ready the horses, Athos."

"No." The response seemed instinctive; Athos' eyes reflecting his desire to stay with his men. "Not yet."

Porthos seized his lieutenant with a stare. "We talked about this last night. The Cardinal needs to be brought to justice. You know you 'ave to do this," he implored. "For all of us."

"I hate to leave you like this," Athos admitted, his gaze traveling between Aramis' motionless body and d'Artagnan's weary features.

The quiet confession granted a rare glimpse of the older man's emotions which tugged at Porthos' heart.

"I know you do, brother," he said, leaning forward to catch Athos' eyes and lend strength to his words. "But I promise you, I'll watch over them. And you know I'd protect 'em with my life."

Jutting his chin at the door, Porthos indicated the space where he had deposited Lazare's dead body hours ago. "Besides, the danger here died with him."

"The real threat lives at the palace and dines with the King," d'Artagnan added. "The Cardinal must finally be held accountable for his actions."

Porthos grunted. "He can't be allowed to throw daggers every time our backs are turned."

"I know," said Athos with a nod. "We will see justice done. By any means."

D'Artagnan shook his head lightly. "And The Queen seems to think King Louis wouldn't be able to cope with the Cardinal's betrayal," he stated. "She protected him before. Who's to say she won't do it again?"

"This is musketeer business," Treville insisted as he rose to his feet. "I'm sure the Queen will not interfere."

Crossing the distance to Aramis' makeshift bed on the ground, the captain crouched in front of him. "You get better, you hear me?" he whispered, resting his hand on top of the marksman's head. "We need you back in Paris."

With a final glance at Aramis' pale features, Treville straightened and strode toward the door. "I trust you to take care of them, Porthos," he called over his shoulder before exiting the chapel.

"I will," Porthos muttered to himself, squaring his back to shoulder the responsibility he had been entrusted with.

Athos pushed to his feet but remained rooted to the spot, his gaze shifting between d'Artagnan and Aramis before settling on Porthos. "The saddle bags contain enough water and provisions to last you three days," he explained, his eyes still filled with the reluctance to leave his men behind. "I promise you I will return before then."

"We will be right here," d'Artagnan assured. "All of us."

Porthos lifted his chin. "Give 'im hell."

With a final nod, Athos turned on his heel and walked through the door.

As the clatter of hooves faded into the distance and finally ceased completely, Porthos allowed his head to rest against the wall behind him, hoping to retain enough energy to fulfill his promise and see his brothers through.

§§§

Thursday afternoon

Deja Vu descended on Treville as he pushed against the heavy double doors of the palace library. He felt like he'd just left here with orders sending him and Aramis on this fateful mission.

When he and Athos crossed the threshold, Queen Anne rushed toward them, the golden fabric of her dress shimmering in the light of the afternoon sun.

"Treville, Athos. Thank God," she called, anxiety pitching her voice high. "Have you heard of the Cardinal's fate?"

Treville nodded. "One of the guards at the palace gates informed us. "What happened?"

"The captain of the red guard found his body this morning, slumped over his desk in his study," the Queen explained. "The physician attributes his death to heart failure due to his recent health issues."

Heart failure? Wheels of doubt churned in Treville's gut. Cardinal Richelieu's ruthlessness had gathered him many enemies over the years. For him to die of something so mundane as heart failure seemed hard to believe. Treville swallowed his words of skepticism before they could leap off his tongue.

"Where is the King?" Athos asked with a sidelong glance at Treville.

Sighing, the Queen bowed her head. "He's locked himself into his chamber and refuses to come out."

"He's grieving," Treville responded, fighting not to roll his eyes at the King's predictable behavior.

Anne grasped Treville's hands, her eyes glistening with tears. "What do I do, Treville?" she pleaded. "The public needs to be addressed; the people must be assured the King stands fast despite this tragedy." Taking a deep breath, she pulled her hands back and fidgeted with the necklace around her neck. "Then there are the funeral arrangements and -"

"Remain calm, your Majesty," implored Treville, hoping his words imparted comfort. "I will speak with the King and I promise all will be taken care of."

"Thank you," she breathed, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I knew I could rely on you, Captain."

As the Queen's shoulders visibly relaxed under Treville's reassurances, her eyes carried the spark of another question. "What of your mission? Did you substantiate the claim of an uprising in LaRochelle?"

"The claims were false," Treville explained, adjusting his stance. "The entire affair was orchestrated to lure me into an ambush."

Her Majesty inhaled sharply as she pressed her hand to her chest. "That is dreadful. Who would do such a thing?"

Athos cleared his throat before sharing his insight on the matter. "We have reason to believe the Cardinal hired a troupe of mercenaries to kill Captain Treville on route to Chateau Fontainebleau."

"I see," she said, her voice as thin as paper. "Unfortunately, Captain, you and I are uniquely qualified to attest to the Cardinal's cruelty."

Straightening her spine and raising her chin, the Queen's gaze turned to ice, dispelling the sadness from her features. "But it seems that God has finally demanded recompense for his actions," she stated, "and I for one will sleep much easier because of it."

Treville doubted God had anything to do with the matter, but nodded his head in agreement.

"I do trust you escaped the attempt on your life unharmed?" Queen Anne asked, her eyes searching his body for signs of injury.

"I did," Treville assured. "But two of my men have been seriously wounded."

In response to his words, the color leached from her beautiful features while her hand came to rest on her stomach as if she felt the need to shield her unborn child from the news.

It was no secret the Queen of France held her Musketeer protectors in high esteem, but her strong reaction surprised Treville.

Before he found the appropriate words to dispel her concerns, Athos stepped forward. A strange look passed between his lieutenant and the Queen as they locked eyes.

"Will they recover?" she whispered.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan are strong," assured Athos, his words soft. "They will heal."

For a moment her Majesty's eyes screamed with the need for more information, and Treville realized the finer details of this conversation eluded him.

With a deep breath, Anne succeeded in schooling her features, hiding her emotions behind the bearing of a Queen. Instinct told Treville not to pry; urged him to move on before his mind accidentally stumbled upon a truth he wasn't prepared to hear.

"If you excuse us, your Majesty," he said with a bow of his head, "I'll see if I can convince the King to leave his chambers."

The Queen nodded her assent, all traces of emotion locked away inside the depth of her eyes. "Will you tell him?" she asked. "Will you tell Louis about the Cardinal's treachery?"

"Considering the circumstances," replied Treville. "I see no reason to destroy his Majesty's belief that Cardinal Richelieu was a true servant of France."

Anne's features brightened with sincere gratitude. "You are a good man, Captain," she determined. "Your loyalty has always been a cornerstone of this house."

"It's my duty," he said, dismissing the praise.

Her Majesty's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "And yet it means everything."

Humbled by her words, Treville bowed before his Queen then turned on his heel, striding toward the exit.

Stepping over the threshold, he stopped in the hallway and waited for Athos to join him. "What do you make of this?" Treville asked when the lieutenant closed the door behind them.

"Those who have no heart, don't commonly die of heart failure," Athos muttered. "I suspect more at play here than meets the eye."

When Athos turned and led the way down the marble hallway toward the Cardinal's study, Treville followed in silence.

Reaching the heavy oak door, Athos stopped to draw a deep breath. He released the air through pursed lips before pushing against the wooden slab and stepping across the threshold.

The office looked as Treville remembered it; the high wooden ceiling flaunted an intricate design of impressive artistry while evenly spaced windows along the east wall flooded the room with the soft glow of the afternoon sun. The only furnishings, a wooden desk and cabinet, stood forlorn in the center of the expansive space as a testament to the Cardinal's vanity.

Without pause or consideration for his surroundings, Athos strode forward until he reached the desk, where his gaze flitted across the surface.

As Treville came to stand next to his soldier, he watched Athos' back stiffen when amidst scrolls and books, his gaze caught on a small, silver locket.

Treville frowned. "Athos?"

"This… Belongs to me," Athos disclosed as he took hold of the necklace.

Opening the clasp to reveal the picture of forget-me-nots, his eyes glazed over. "It's the one tangible reminder of my past that I kept," he shared. "The keepsake I used to wear around my neck to remind myself of my sins."

Treville's forehead creased, his mind working to grasp the implications. "Why is it on the Cardinal's desk?"

"There is one explanation," Athos reasoned, prying his gaze from the locket to meet Treville's. "She left it for me to find... after she killed him."

"Who?"

Darkness settled within the depths of Athos' eyes. "My wife."

When the final piece of the puzzle slid into place, Treville's insides twisted with the realization that Athos would most likely shoulder the burden of responsibility for Milady's actions.

"This is not your doing, Athos," he assured in a firm voice.

Athos' eyes flashed with guilt. "I made her what she is."

"I don't believe that for one second," Treville countered, his voice rough in response to his soldier's pain. "We are, all of us, responsible for our own actions. Past tragedy does not give her the power of executioner."

"Be that as it may," Athos deflected, "she will be long gone by now. We will never find her."

Athos' despondency caused Treville to heave a sigh. "I neither condone her actions nor her methods, but considering current circumstances, I dare say that the result of her actions might work in our favor," he reasoned. "Death is no more than he deserved for all the atrocities he's committed in his lifetime, and the fact that he died by the hand of his own assassin spells poetic justice to me."

As acceptance slowly settled into Athos' stormy gaze, he nodded his head. "So we let her get away?" he asked to clarify.

"As you pointed out," Treville reminded, "she already has. And rest assured, we will revisit the matter if she ever dares set foot in Paris again.

"In the meantime, I have a grieving King to console," he pushed on, clasping Athos' upper arm. "And you must rest to gather enough strength for your return journey to Saint Blaise in the morning."

Athos' spine straightened at the mention of the chapel and their brothers. "Alright," he agreed. "We will handle this your way."

"Return to the garrison," Treville advised. "Eat. Sleep. And come dawn, you can head back out with fresh horses, fresh supplies, and two extra men."

His eyes downcast, Athos nodded. "I hope leaving them wasn't a mistake," he said. "D'Artagnan and Aramis..." As his words trailed off, he pressed his lips together; the lines around his mouth exposing his concern.

"I'm sure by the time you return to the chapel you'll find that Porthos is the one in need," Treville predicted, hoping to dispel Athos' worry. "His patience will have worn thin by Aramis' and d'Artagnan's premature assurances of their recovery."

Athos' lips twitched with a smile. "You know your men."

"I would be remiss in my duty if I didn't.

Drawing a deep breath, Athos nodded slowly. "You're right," he said in a firm voice. "I'll do as you say and return to the garrison. And tomorrow I will bring our brothers home."

§§§

Thursday afternoon

Open your eyes.

The sweet sound of Anne's voice filled every corner of Aramis' mind, urging him on, pleading with him to do as she asked.

Open your eyes, Aramis. Your brothers need you to wake...

Unable to deny her, even in a semi-conscious state, Aramis struggled to obey and climbed through the nightmares and darkness that had been trapping him for far too long.

"Aramis?"

That voice, Aramis recognized as his anchor against the thundering waves of life. And in the end, he would even defy God for the ability to erase the concern coloring the familiar rumble of Porthos' words.

Forcing his lids open, Aramis squinted against the light piercing his eyes and slicing into his brain.

"That's it, come on back," Porthos encouraged, his hand a comforting weight on Aramis' chest.

Focusing on Porthos' touch, Aramis fought to find his bearings. His undertaking proved difficult as his vision blurred and swirled like a puddle of muddy water; blotches of light and color refusing to settle into recognizable images. The fever Aramis had battled left his hair matted with sweat and his face gritty. A ton of bricks weighed on his beaten muscles, rendering his body useless.

"Am I late… to the party?" he pushed forth, his voice a scratchy whisper he hardly recognized.

Porthos huffed a humorless laugh. "You could say that," he uttered, his words tainted with a strange mix of relief and distress. "Gave us quite the scare."

As Aramis blinked with effort to restore his sight, and the muddled shadows before him forged into the familiar contours of Porthos' face, he studied his friend's features. Aramis' brows knitted together when the lines around Porthos' eyes spoke of a sleepless night.

"I am sorry, my friend. I didn't mean to -"

"How're you feelin'?" Porthos interrupted, evidently unwilling to entertain his apology. "Fever finally broke 'bout two hours ago."

"I feel like I fell from a three story building," Aramis admitted, realizing that false bravado would not be appreciated at the moment.

"Honesty," Porthos remarked. "How refreshing."

Aramis swallowed, flinching as the raw tissue of his throat protested the motion. "Unfortunately, I seem to lack the energy to lie."

"I'm not surprised," Porthos informed, as he reached for the water skin and popped the cork with his thumb. "It's been a long night."

The shadows hovering in the depth of Porthos' gaze evoked a string of broken memories, giving new life to Aramis' agony. Heat ravaged his frame, whispers of comfort brushed his ears, and that vile creature called pain trapped him under its wings and plunged his world into darkness.

Not willing to wallow in his misery, a fire forged in his belly, urging him to move and escape the confines of his fragile body.

Grunting, Aramis tried to push off the ground.

"Not this again," Porthos moaned. "What do you think you're doin'?"

Aramis' muscles shuddered under the strain of his actions, refusing to obey his command to rise. "Will you help me sit up?" he pleaded, cursing the frailty of his voice.

Porthos shook his head, his eyes shining with regret. "Ya need to take it easy."

"Please," Aramis begged, the urge to prove his vitality out wrestling common sense.

Porthos sighed, set the water skin aside and reached for him with both hands.

"Slow n' steady," his friend cautioned as he slipped his arm beneath Aramis' shoulder blades to help him sit up.

A fiery poker pierced Aramis' side. His muscles contracted, and a jostle of his arm served to shift his world on its axis as his wound ignited like gunpowder.

Before he could regret his decision to rise, Aramis' injuries pitched him forward in protest of his foolish undertaking. Any measure of control seemed beyond his grasp until his forehead met the solid support of Porthos' chest.

"Told ya," Porthos grumbled as he rubbed slow circles on Aramis' back. "Need to take it easy."

Aramis moaned, his usual eloquence eluding him as he breathed in Porthos' scent in the hopes of calming his heaving chest. "I'm fine."

"You're stubborn as hell," Porthos corrected. "But you certainly ain't fine."

"I will be once I…"

Aramis' words trailed off as he focused his efforts on shuffling backward. When his back connected with the wall of the chapel, he slumped against it. "See? All good," he mumbled, his breath hitching. Setting his jaw, Aramis fought to close his mind to the continual fire slipping through his arm and feeding on his flesh.

"If you say so," Porthos said with a sigh. Edging closer to sit next to Aramis, Porthos' shoulder touched his, helping him keep his balance. "Here," Porthos offered, handing him the water skin. "Drink."

"Thank you... my friend," Aramis whispered. Taking hold of the proffered container to quench his thirst, he hoped Porthos would realize his gratitude extended to so much more than the water soothing his throat.

Resting a hand on Aramis' thigh, Porthos squeezed the muscle beneath his fingers. "Anytime, brother," he promised. "Anytime."

The rasp in Porthos' voice prompted Aramis to look up. Scrutinizing the lines around Porthos' eyes, he realized they stemmed from pain as much as exhaustion.

As Aramis' brows knitted together, he reached up to probe the split skin below his friend's hairline where bruising and a crusted layer of blood supported his suspicion that Porthos suffered from a vicious headache.

"Allowing yourself to be captured by the enemy might not have been the smartest thing you've ever done," Aramis ventured, wincing when Porthos flinched under his ministrations.

Batting his hand away, Porthos scoffed. "I'm fine. And in case you hadn't noticed, the odds weren't exactly in our favor," he returned with a rueful smile. "Had to get creative."

"Creative is one word for it," Aramis said, his breath hitching once more as a stab of pain lanced through his arm. "Reckless... is another."

Cradling his injured limb in his lap, Aramis stared at the bandage covering his wound, hoping to force the fire beneath into submission before it drove him mad.

"I'm sure it 'urts like hell," Porthos said, following Aramis' line of sight. "But it does look better. Me n' Athos, we cleaned it twice more last night and the honey seems to help clear the infection."

Aramis forced his mind to ignore his suffering. "I do apologize for depleting your stash of sweets," he returned, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"No worries," Porthos said with a chuckle. "When we return home you can pay me back in wine bottles. I'll need them."

"Bottles? Sounds like you're charging me interest."

"Of course. Have to help the empty purse somehow," Porthos explained. "Commission 's barely enough to get by."

As the familiar banter relaxed his tightly coiled muscles, Aramis breathed deeply when the burning needles inside his arm eased their torment, and the agony subsided to a throbbing ache. "You could always improve your card game," he teased, letting his head fall back to rest against the wall behind him. "There is more money in that."

"Better watch it," Porthos warned, his lips twitching with a smile. " My card game is second to none."

"Only when you have an extra ace up your sleeve."

Aramis felt their quiet chuckles form a shield against the stress and anxiety of the past two days, and watched Porthos' shoulders relax as concern and worry faded into the background.

Aramis' snickers ebbed off when his eyes caught on d'Artagnan's sleeping form. The Gascon's head rested on a wool cloak, his features relaxed and free of pain for the moment. "How does his wound look?" he asked, grateful for the steady rise and fall of the younger man's chest.

"Redressed it twice," Porthos answered. "Kept it nice n' clean."

"Glad to hear it," he said, nodding in approval. "The wound is deep, it's imperative we keep it clean to prevent infection."

"Ay," Porthos agreed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, eyes staring into the distance.

Sensing a wave of nervous energy ripple through Porthos' frame, Aramis prompted, "What is it?"

Carting one hand through messy curls, Porthos sighed. "It's a great thing you did, you know?" he said, his voice a quiet rumble. "The way you removed that ball. If it weren't for you, we could 'ave lost 'im."

Aramis slowly shook his head, unwilling to accept the praise. "I would have failed miserably without your support, my friend," he whispered. "The pain addled my mind and I couldn't…"

As the meaning he wished to convey got tangled in a web of emotion, Aramis searched Porthos' gaze, hoping to once again draw from the other man's strength. "Thank you for keeping me grounded," he said, exhaling slowly. "Sometimes I feel like you know me better than I know myself."

Porthos' head bopped up and down as if in agreement, though his eyes turned dark as shadows of doubt settled in their depths.

"That so?" Porthos wondered, his voice carrying a note of sadness. "The last couple weeks would have me challenge that statement, cause I got no idea what's been goin' on with you."

Aramis bowed his head in acceptance of the conversation he was about to have, and carefully laid out the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. "I am sorry if my behavior caused you to question our friendship."

"It has," Porthos admitted, his stare penetrating Aramis' defenses. "But the worst of it is that for the past forty-eight hours I 'ad to wonder if your constant distraction might get you killed out there."

"That was never my intention," Aramis muttered, as regret, ugly and dark, burnt a hole into his heart.

Shaking his head slowly, Porthos pushed on as if Aramis' words hadn't registered. "An' all I could do was kick myself for not tellin' you that, whatever it is that has you wound so tight… I'm here. As always."

As Porthos' unconditional support wrapped around him like a blanket, Aramis' resolve to spare his friend the burden of his secrets bent under its comforting weight.

But it did not break.

"Something happened," he started, careful to hold eye contact to convey his sincerity. "But as there is no solution to my predicament, telling you would serve no other purpose than to drag you into this mess I've created." Aramis shook his head. "And I cannot in good conscience allow that to happen."

"Trouble don't bother me," Porthos assured. "I'd walk through fire for you an' I think you know that."

"I do, my friend," confirmed Aramis, swallowing the lump in his throat. "But that doesn't mean I'd want you to."

Porthos lifted his chin. "Athos knows, doesn't he?"

"He does," Aramis said, casting his eyes downward. "But believe me, I never intended for him to find out."

When Porthos remained silent, Aramis turned sideways to face his friend, resting his hand on the larger man's thigh to build a physical connection that would strengthen his words.

"I can tell you this," he offered. "I dare say that the last two days have served to break the cycle of introspection that has kept me prisoner for the past weeks. There is nothing like the prospect of certain death to put things in perspective."

Holding Porthos' gaze, Aramis wished he could erase the lines of pain marring his friend's features and soothe the turmoil in his eyes. "I vow that from this point forth, I will focus on counting my blessings rather than dwelling on something that can never be."

A flicker of comprehension flashed across Porthos' features in response to his words, but disappeared so quickly that Aramis realized he must have imagined it.

Porthos released a long, shaky breath. "If that's the case, then I won't pry," he relented. "But if you ever need anything, you know you can count on me." Porthos covered the hand on his thigh with his own. "Always."

"Trust me, my friend, your friendship and loyalty have never once been drawn into question."

For a long moment, Porthos searched Aramis' features but nodded slowly in the end. "Alright then," he said in a rough voice. "It's settled."

"Good." Aramis' sigh of relief turned into a groan as the discomfort of his injuries once again demanded his attention. "Because I think I'm ready now."

"Ready for what?"

As his waning energy vanished, Aramis slumped further against Porthos' shoulder while the world spun around him in dizzying circles. "To lie back down."

"Here," Porthos muttered, grasping Aramis' upper arms to guide him to the ground and cradling Aramis' head in his lap.

As Aramis waited for his surroundings to cease their nauseating spin, a thought occurred to him. "Do you want to hear the worst part about this entire ordeal?" he asked.

"What's that?"

Aramis moaned. "I lost my hat."

A heartfelt bark of laughter broke from Porthos' throat as his hand came down to ruffle Aramis' curls. "Hold on," he said, reaching for one of the saddlebags on the ground next to him.

As Porthos produced a crumpled piece of leather and twirled it between his fingers, Aramis' forehead lifted. "You found it?"

"Course I did," replied Porthos. "Told ya you can count on me."

When Aramis took hold of his hat and hugged it to his chest, the display of Porthos' unwavering support caused needles to prick the area behind his eyes.

"You'll be alright," Porthos soothed, the words sounding to Aramis like a promise, a plea, an order and a prayer.

"I've always believed that as long as we have each other, we'll all be alright," Aramis replied, holding Porthos' gaze for another moment to convey his meaning. "I forgot for a while." He closed his eyes, his heart at peace. "But I remember now."

The End

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So... who made it all the way to the end? I'd love to know... :)

If you did, I hope you enjoyed and maybe I'll see you next time. Thanks for reading. SanB


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